


Insult to Injury

by Dorminchu



Series: Insult to Injury (and appendices) [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, James Bond - Ian Fleming
Genre: Age Disparity (34/27), Alternate Ending - SPECTRE (2015), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Antiheroes, Blood and Violence, Childhood Trauma, Disfigurement, Eventual Romance, F/M, Formalwear, Gen, James Bond References, MacGuffins, Military Backstory, Missions Gone Wrong, Movie: No Time to Die (2021), Mr. White's grade A parenting skills finally pay off, Médicins Sans Frontières | Doctors Without Borders, Organized Crime, Post-Skyfall, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, SPECTRE (2015) Fix-It, Safin is His Own Warning, Scarification, Slow Build, Trope Subversion/Inversion, ethical dilemmas for unethical people, people who don't know how to talk about feelings needing to talk about feelings, pushes the Mature rating to its theoretical limit, takes loose inspiration from Jin-Roh: The Wolf Brigade (1999)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:54:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22742821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorminchu/pseuds/Dorminchu
Summary: “The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.”—Carl Gustav JungOr:While attempting to live a clean life outside of her father's criminal element, Dr. Madeleine Swann inevitably finds herself in the midst of a much more dangerous schism — but she's not the only one looking for a way out.[Post-Skyfall]
Relationships: Franz Oberhauser | Ernst Stavro Blofeld & Lyutsifer Safin, Franz Oberhauser | Ernst Stavro Blofeld & Madeleine Swann, James Bond & Franz Oberhauser | Ernst Stavro Blofeld, James Bond & Madeleine Swann, Lyutsifer Safin & Madeleine Swann, Lyutsifer Safin/Madeleine Swann, Madeleine Swann & Mr. White, Madeleine Swann & Paloma
Series: Insult to Injury (and appendices) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1971970
Comments: 25
Kudos: 20





	1. A THOUSAND DETAILS

**Author's Note:**

> Optional playlist, if you like that sort of thing: [SPOTIFY](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1KARdLeHjZN5mNilJF5AAb?si=p-CKnAt6Q-mGjWlqbGO8uA) \+ [8TRACKS](https://8tracks.com/dorminchu/insult-to-injury-madeleine-safin?utm_medium=referral&utm_content=mix-page&utm_campaign=embed_button)
> 
> The 8Tracks one is closer to what I had in mind from an artistic sense but both have jams.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeking to hide herself away from those who would do her harm, Madeleine takes a mission with the MSF; but there are certain truths one can never outrun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wahey, a new fandom! The fic in question takes place a year or two before the events of _Spectre_. Irrespective of any leaks, trailer analysis or rumors, and until I've seen _No Time to Die_ , I'm gonna stick to this AU where Safin and Madeleine are (roughly) of similar age, as that is still my initial impression.
> 
> To that end, I've also taken some liberties with Safin's characterization and background, as well as Madeleine's, to an extent. Her character demonstrated a lot of promise, and deserved a better script to work with than the one in _Spectre_.

In the sterile comfort of her office, Madeleine Swann stared blankly at her computer monitor. The words on the screen, denoting her application as a psychologist consultant with the _Médecins Sans Frontières_ had been sent, turned fuzzy with lack of focus.

She'd done her best to ignore the signs of a settling migraine—common sense would tell her to get out and take a break.

The sun behind her made it difficult to see the screen unless she turned up the brightness or shut the blinds. She often kept the windows closed anyway, to alleviate the stench of the local florae in-bloom outside, giving the office an unintentionally cold aesthetic that nevertheless suited her in the eyes of her clients that would mistake this coldness for orderliness, like a private joke.

The migraine felt wonted also. Her friends would inevitably want to socialise this upcoming weekend, though she only obliged them out of a sense of commitment rather than appreciation. Since she wasn't working all the time, she'd have to think of a new excuse to worm her way out of unnecessary fraternisation.

More pressingly, Madeleine thought back to her application as a psychologist consultant. The location of the mission was Conakry, Guinea. Should she be accepted, her contract duration would last from the end of May to the first week of August—so, around two months, and right as the rainfall became impermeable—though Madeleine possessed no scruples. She'd managed to fulfil all the preliminary requirements; all she could do now was wait for a response from the HRO.

⁂

_Graduation from Oxford was a quick, unemotional affair. Madeleine had no extended family to invite—no one else of import, besides her short-term friends._

_As she stood next to her peers, she looked out into the crowd. An individual figure in the stands was no more remarkable than any other parent or relative, though one caught her attention. An older man, perhaps in his late fifties, hidden partially behind sunglasses and a smart dress-hat. With a nauseating thrill she recognized his hat as well as his smile, the slope of his face now wrinkled with age. She had no idea whether or not he had actually seen her, but why should he have smiled if not for her sake? To Madeleine it was like he was sneering behind his glasses._

_They did not speak to one another afterwards, as this would surely draw unwanted attention. At the same time, she wasn't about to go over and ask him how he'd been faring, giving him have an opportunity to wound her pride._

_She made up some excuse to go home before he could seek her out, in spite of her friends' protests, and the memory of him took up residence where physical space would not permit, lingering in her mind, behind her eyelids when she closed them. She'd tried to dredge up some residual emotions for the man who less so resembled a father and more an anonymous pen pal in recent years, before concluding that perhaps it was best for his pride to pretend she was non-existent, rather than admit the existence of his daughter's indifference._

_She did not sleep well, but paced the length of her tiny flat, wondering why he had come at all if he knew she would inevitably run off again._

⁂

For the past three years, and with the same sense of routine, Madeleine had found solace, not only in her work but the strange and nebulous agency she took in identifying the root of other peoples' troubles; a faulty marriage brought on by substance abuse or debts that could not be repaid, rebellious children with too much time to spare and a lacking family presence. Others were less extreme, seeking a means to understand oneself through introspection, or the courage to reconnect with friends, simple conversations that were no more impactful than the change in weather.

As a consequence of her upbringing, Madeleine's sense of confidentiality as a psychologist moulded into her daily life. She treated her flat like a hotel room, kept no photographs. She did not discuss her private life with anyone. In spite of herself she had tried to spruce up her desk at work with an inoffensive calendar, then a pot of faux flowers—a present for her falsified birthday, from a friend she didn't talk to anymore—carefully constructing an alibi if and when she was asked; allergies, nothing more.

The longer the pot stayed on her desk, the more disingenuous she felt. Each day bled into the next. In the back of her mind, a greater sense of unrest subsisted, like a threat that was hinted at but never came to fruition. This lack of blatant danger soon directed her thoughts, almost semiconsciously, back to her application with MSF; four weeks waiting time felt like an eternity, and onus was her only company.

Anything was better than the alternative embarrassment of coming back to her father with her tail between her legs.

⁂

_A discreet, anonymous enrolment into Oxford and the Sorbonne had been her father's last gifts to her before he decided to stop seeing her in person. Madeleine was never foolish enough to refuse his offers or start an argument outright, but accepting his interference was always closer to a smarting defeat, and the humiliation of depending on him and his cruelly-earned money haunted her throughout the formative years and her eventual graduation._

_As a college student, when impelled to talk about family, often on behalf of her friends, Madeleine had stated that she and her father were not close and kept it at that. She'd only mentioned her strained relationship with her mother when pressed further, careful not to elaborate too much on the reason, waiting for them to drop the topic when more often they would simply keep pursuing answers like a fruitless game of chicken._

_But she'd pretended to enjoy herself for a while, going along to the café with her friends on Saturdays, trying to assign some familiarity to the sights and sounds surrounding her, in the voice of the waitress and the smell of coffee laced with artificial sweeteners. She did not look around for inconspicuous men and women who might be following her. She even got a boyfriend half-way through her second year;_ Arnaud, _who was of comparable intellect, studying Latin and sociology. But each time, inevitably, the night would arrive, and Madeleine would be alone again with her reflection in the window; at least, until she drew the blinds._

⁂

In three weeks' time she got a response from the HRO; she'd been approved, and the initial interview was scheduled shortly thereafter. By the time all of the required preparations had been accounted for, it was April.

With the coming season also came a crushing sense of ennui. She could never bring it upon herself to fall into the role of normality that eluded her—lately, she found herself picking apart the mind of her boyfriend Arnaud for lack of anything better to do. She already saw him almost every day, as he worked in the same clinic she did, and he seemed far more interested in his own job whenever she tried to get in his head.

It wasn't as though she could blame him for her own unorthodox way of life. Arnaud never saw cause to start fights or belittle her. The trouble was that Madeleine didn't feel safe with anyone, and she would only be endangering him if she allowed him to settle down with her in the long-term, or vice-versa. So she tried an approach that was closer to the truth than she would have liked; apologised, telling him that she was stressed out, and that she'd be going away for a few months on a mission with MSF, which would eat up the majority of her time; if their relationship somehow didn't survive the long-distance, to at least to consider taking a hiatus than continue to push forward in light of a lack of chemistry.

Arnaud had smiled in a way that didn't reach his eyes and asked how long she'd been sitting on that speech. When Madeleine inevitably expressed her confusion, he told her that he wasn't worried at all, but happy for her, because she was going to help a lot of people.

She'd wanted to ignore the hurt in his tone, but how could she not? They hadn't kissed in weeks, and scarcely did much else besides hold hands; she'd only adopted the relationship for the sake of propriety. With a miserable conscience she went to her friends for support rather than condolences, grateful they could never really understand but simultaneously overwhelmed with a bitter, frightening envy for their ignorance, turning most other thoughts to white noise. What gave _them_ the right to worry over frivolous matters when they were luckier than they could ever realise?

⁂

Around a week before she was to depart for her mission, reports from several news outlets cited the emergence of an outbreak primarily affecting West Africa. Originating inland, a mysterious illness that revealed itself first with fever and spells of vomiting, then gradually ate away at the flesh of those afflicted and bore their bones and muscle, vulnerable to further rot. More emboldened journalists had taken to calling it the Red Death on account of this. Neither a cure nor a place or origin had been discovered.

Madeleine was assured over email that the MSF had already taken precautions and she'd be instructed further on what to do upon arrival. For now, she was issued a pamphlet and strongly advised to vaccinate before boarding the flight. Once this was taken care of, Madeleine could do was steel herself for the oncoming mission. It was impossible not to think about, always in the news and the back of her mind during the flight, these faces of the damned she would soon be tending to in whatever capacity she could offer.

So the day came, and Madeline boarded her pre-paid flight to Conakry on behest of the MSF; she would have to catch some sleep between the arrival and departure. Yet all the same, finally sitting down in the flight cabin made everything more real—whatever became of her next would be her decision alone, not her father's or anyone else's.

After an eight-hour flight she touched down Conakry International Airport, around mid-morning. From here she was quickly collected and driven through the ramshackle city streets until they reached Donka Hospital, whereupon she met up with the Medical Coordinator, and was put to work promptly with the Psychosocial Unit.

It soon became apparent there were still not enough doctors to handle the influx of infected, and the functioning equipment was mostly on account of MSF's efforts. Though the staff were polite enough, Madeleine got the impression they would've preferred to see another doctor or medical coordinator. All of them were clad in full-body personal protective equipment—masks, goggles, gloves and gowns. The stench of rot hung pervasively in the air.

About a mile or two from the hospital was the area she'd be cohabiting with the other members of the MSF; rows of tents all lined up, reminding Madeleine distantly of a prisoner's accommodations. Really, she shouldn't think like this.

She soon was paired off with a psychologist (Clyde Jacobsen); American, around her age. He was a more personable sort than she was used to—the first thing he did was try to make her comfortable by noting they did not have reliable electricity or a running toilet, and she'd do well to acclimatise.

"It can get pretty ugly out there, so you want to make sure you follow all the safety procedures. And—did they tell you about the mosquitoes? Forget the disease, THAT's what you have to worry about—those little bastards are everywhere." He stopped, squinted. "You've had your shots?"

"Yes," said Madeleine stiffly, "I've been made aware of the dangers, thanks." She did not add that she wouldn't be allowed into the premises if she hadn't. Perhaps he was only trying to lighten the mood?

"Good," said Clyde. "Otherwise you'd have a lot more to worry about."

The humidity combined with the smell off-road were more intolerable than Madeleine would care to admit. But she did not want to appear pitiable in front of someone she did not know very well. Her initial discomfort, though internalised, did not manage to curb her tongue: "I lived out in the countryside when I was very small, so I was taught to look after myself."

Clyde laughed. "Oh yeah? We'll see about that."

There were four other team members on the Psychosocial Unit, and they were as amicable as the situation would allow. None of them got on her nerves as much as Clyde, anyway.

Initially Madeleine had considered him far too chipper for a psychologist. Never to the point of seeming false or obsequiously so, but just enough of a go-getter to piss her off. As the days passed and they all became more familiar with each other, she figured that he wasn't putting on airs, just a genial man.

After a week, and some self-reflection, she resolved to correct her error in judgement by forcing herself to talk to him a bit during down-time, but Clyde either didn't notice the deliberate nature of her efforts or was just naturally open to conversation, for which she was privately grateful.

"You're pretty reticent for a psychologist consultant," he noted one afternoon.

"I'm here to do a job. Nothing more."

Clyde shrugged. "I can respect that. We've all got our reasons. Honestly, you're handling this situation a lot better than I would have."

"How so?"

"Counselling is one thing, but a psychologist consultant? That's a whole other deal. I'd go nuts having to babysit…" he stopped as Madeleine threw him a look of confusion, "okay, maybe that was the wrong word.

"I can always contact the project coordinator if there's an issue."

"Yeah, for sure. It just seems like a lot of stress on top of everything else."

Madeleine nodded to be polite.

⁂

The higher temperature was not so bad as the humidity that immediately slapped her in the face whenever stepping outside, smothering and constant—according to the pamphlet and other forecasts, it was only going to get worse within the coming months. But there was little time to be held up on petty grievances.

She and Clyde were given no quarter when it came time for attending to the surviving patients. Many, though not all of them, were children. Most conversations were had in French, though there were a handful that possessed a capacity to communicate through an interpreter. Irrespective of the language and cultural barriers, it wasn't long before these people confessed to Clyde (and thereby Madeleine) such things that would have surely kept another woman up all night, driven mad with a profound and terrific grief.

Madeleine was no stranger to trauma. Still, the time she'd spent tending to the unremarkable ailments of the first-world could not prepare her for the level of despair that these people talked about with prosaic sincerity; it often sounded outrageous when she looked over the records; death a more common occurrence before simple, human cruelty. The onset of the Red Death had taken much from them, sowing the seeds of doubt in the MSF's capabilities, and while the opportunity to assist those less fortunate had bolstered her pride considerably, the repeated confrontation with seemingly inhumane tragedy soon knocked it back down into the dust.

So Madeleine lost herself in her work for the next several weeks, in the heated climate and rainfall and strange camaraderie forged between the other MSF members. She lent an ear until the horror became numbing. When pressed for advice, she would talk calmly, carefully with Clyde and the rest of the medical team about what would be optimal— _this woman needs more time to confront the root of the problem; but she can't help her circumstances or her father's illness. This child has not been permitted time to grieve the loss of his sister—his speech was matter-of-fact, and he seemed almost irritated by her concern—probably trying to process the events in his own way. You should encourage him to talk a little more, not too much. Emphasise proper medical procedure in a manner the children can understand without patronising them, don't leave the infected skin uncovered._

Madeleine watched the vigour drain from Clyde's eyes while she gained an all-too familiar reputation for working tirelessly. She was, by now, at least well-respected by her peers and the locals. Occasionally there would be some outlier or complication, but that came with the profession and the new environment.

⁂

With one thing and another, June came around. Progress remained slow, but unwavering. Currently the MSF were in the process of dealing with a sudden influx of internally displaced persons, or IDPs, from the surrounding prefectures and villages, all of whom had to be tested and separated from those not stricken with the Red Death—as this did not necessarily mean they weren't carrying other diseases. Thanks to the cooperation with the local civilians and tireless efforts on part of the medical staff, there had been a forty-five-percent decrease in fatalities compared to the start of the year.

In the sweltering nights Madeleine would lay in the tent listening to the passing automobiles and civilians. In the mornings and throughout the day there would be the sound of more automobiles and civilians. Rainfall broke up the otherwise consistent pattern of muggy weather; while Madeleine found herself rousing earlier in light of this, it was easy enough once she became accustomed, pouring over documents with Clyde early in the morning.

Take one client for example; a mother of three, who was having problems now that her husband was sick. The husband's brother had agreed to discuss this matter under the condition that they would first have separate consultations before they talked face-to-face, as his concerns had more to do with the mother's mistreatment of her son—allegedly.

In the coming weeks this type of scenario had become less shocking, more rote, though not to the point of foregoing empathy. It required an inordinate amount of patience that Madeleine knew she didn't have, but she wasn't alone.

"The father's got a history of violence," Clyde mentioned. "But the brother hasn't had any problems with his side of the family."

"Yes," said Madeleine distantly.

"And the mother isn't cooperating."

"With you," Madeleine said.

"Yeah. Probably feels more comfortable around another woman." He paused. "That's not unexpected."

Madeleine pushed her hair out of her face. She'd been keeping it back lately to deal with the heat, though it didn't help much. She felt not unlike a sheep in dire need of shearing.

"So," started Clyde wearily. "What do we do about these other cases?"

"The man with the estranged son?" She shook off a fly nesting in her damp hair with less disgust than she would have two weeks ago. "If we try to tackle them all at once, we'll get nowhere. One problem at a time."

"Sounds good." He looked up. "It's a lot to deal with, isn't it?" Madeleine nodded without looking up.

⁂

On the tail-end of June, rumours brewed of another underlying conflict. Madeleine had overheard no small amount of speculation from the other MSF members as well as the locals; the topic of insurgence had come up at least once with a handful of patients already, though nothing serious had occurred where they were stationed.

Allegedly there had been several attacks on neighbouring villages as a result of some misunderstanding between the locals at the lack of total progress, an impatience that turned to violence. Consequentially the _Force Sécurité/Protection,_ or FSP, had been brought on in collaboration with an additional Protective Services Detail (PSD) by the name of PHANTOM, to ensure the hospital and surrounding property remained untouched.

The project coordinator called them all in to discuss this at length, mostly for the sake of reviewing protocol in the event there _was_ an attack—which was starting to seem like a possibility. By the time Madeleine and the rest of her party had finished consulting with the group about said threat, it was going on noon. She sat with Clyde and Peter Miller, a man from Logistics whose name she knew but whom she talked with little, eating a quiet lunch.

The presence of PHANTOM offered more reassurance than Guinea's local militia, though Madeleine was less confident to entrust her life to anyone unfamiliar. One member of the detail stood out among the rest—the head of security, who was presently conversing with the head of the Logistics Team.

His name was Safin. Madeleine had noticed him on her first week (though they hadn't conversed much beyond a formal introduction) moving around in the morning heat, checking in with the project coordinator.

His face was gruesomely scarred from his right temple to the base of his left jaw, though his eyes and nose remained intact. A survivor of some freak accident, or simply a consequence of his current occupation? The latter possibility stood out to Madeleine, but without a clear answer, she was forced to put it in the back of her mind. She had never seen him without gloves, though aside from these factors he could have been any other head of a security detail.

On the way back, unexpectedly he stopped and made his way towards them. Peter mentioned something about having to review with the head of Logistics and made a quiet exit as Safin closed in.

"Dr Swann, Dr Jacobsen." His voice was measured, silky, but the accent was difficult to pin down concretely. It sounded Russian but there was something more to the intonation, and the name was throwing her off as well. These two factors set him apart from everyone else, local or otherwise. His manner wasn't explicitly taciturn, more akin to the disconcerting silence one might experience while looking into a body of still-water—met only with your reflection. "Any trouble this morning?"

He had a rifle strapped to him, but that was to be expected. Madeleine tried to avoid looking at it.

"Not so far," said Clyde.

Safin seemed to consider this for a moment. Then he turned his eyes briefly on Madeleine. "You must feel sure of yourself, coming to a place like this."

"Oh, she's a trooper," Clyde chimed in. "You should see her in-action."

"I'll do whatever I can to help." Madeleine kept her tone light, though she made sure to look Safin in the eye as she spoke; she was not about to be intimidated by anyone.

"Of course," said Safin. "I've heard about your efforts with the Psychosocial Unit."

Seeing him up-close in the daylight brought his disfigurement into a new, unsettling clarity. Too intricate to be leprosy or a typical burn wound, it was more as if his whole face were made of porcelain and had suffered a nasty blow, then glued together again.

Safin's expression became easier to read, but not in a positive sense. It occurred to Madeleine that she might have offended him with her scrutiny, and she resolved to apologise. But then he said: "Keep up the good work. This mission needs you both."

Madeleine nodded primly. As Safin walked off she glanced at Clyde, who just shrugged and said: "Hey, you handled that better than I would've."

"He's a little…"

"Intense?"

Madeleine frowned. "Difficult to read."

"He usually doesn't talk that much, that's what surprised me."

Madeleine wished he'd change the subject. "That much? He barely said anything at all."

"I mean—look, I wouldn't take it personally. He's just trying to figure you out because it's his job."

"Yes," said Madeleine, "I couldn't tell."

"From what I understand, his organization showed up pretty much out-of-the-blue. The guy before him just left, I don't know much about it… ah, we're in June now, so that would have been _two_ months ago?" He lowered his voice. "But, you know, with the situation and all, we can't afford to be picky anymore. Hell, I'd wager he's done more to help these people than their own military presence. Almost makes you wish he was working with us full-time, I bet we'd never have trouble again."

Madeleine feigned interest in her lunch; a big fly landed on her wrist and was fiddling with its legs, as though vying for scraps. She considered crushing it, but she'd probably miss and make a fool of herself.

Clyde nudged her shoulder, spooking the fly. "Hey, aren't you going to eat?"

Madeleine shrugged, figuring he was only trying to be amicable. It was difficult to focus well when she was plagued by old doubts. She had not been naïve enough to believe she was completely untouchable; even in the middle of Africa, the threat of SPECTRE was inescapable. The local government could do so much, if they weren't already owned.

When she'd first arrived she could stave off the worries for a little while with shallow, private reassurances. SPECTRE wouldn't want anything to do with _her_ before they were through with her father.

Perhaps the danger she'd tried so hard back home to evade was, inevitably, inescapable, though not in the way she'd imagined. She thought herself foolish for drawing in so much unneeded attention with her hard work ethic; one way or another, the past would catch up. Then she shook herself. Entertaining any measure of paranoia in this turbulent environment was not a constructive pastime—the last thing she wanted was to provoke suspicion.

⁂

Nights were cooler, though this wasn't much of an improvement, and seldom quiet. Left to her own devices, Madeleine thought, more often than she wanted to admit, about the last time she'd heard from her father. Where was he, now? Still in Altaussee, most likely, holed up in that childhood house that had once meant so much to her as a malleable young girl—visits to see her grandparents that became sparing as she grew older. Surely now he'd find himself carrying out a dismal existence in seclusion, half-buried in the snow as much as his secrets. Her father had tried to joke about it while her mother still lived with them, though this had quickly become a point of dissention and Madeleine, even when she was young, could not blame her mother for being upset.

Madeleine had no idea whether or not he was still with SPECTRE. He'd seldom talked about the barbarous activities he helped fund when she was young.

The only time he'd discussed it openly with her was in her adult years, while she was back from Oxford; during a futile dinner where he had mentioned that he was considering retirement in the same tone as an apology. It was, perhaps, too little too late, and he'd switched course before she could acknowledge the sorrow behind his eyes, asked in the same scrupulous manner of a businessman about her classes, if she had a boyfriend, how was Paris treating her, and Madeleine had looked through him, pretended to listen, and ignored the way he coughed into his napkin after talking too long for the both of them. She'd always been his favourite.

⁂

 _The year Madeleine turned ten was when she started to notice some pressing details. It was the year they did not go to_ L'Americain _at all, because her mother insisted it was becoming too dangerous and someone was following her from her job every other day. That evening bore witness one of the nastier arguments in memory, all the words they'd kept at bay now slung around, back-and-forth like a couple of verbal prize-fighters, until her mother finally snapped that she just couldn't live like this anymore._

_They didn't discuss the topic of divorce in front of Madeleine, but she wasn't as naïve as she'd been at nine._

_Her father came home late more often now, and elsewise would be up on the phone with men she had never heard of well into the night. Her mother was irritable for reasons she would not relay explicitly. The only time her mother and father tried acting like parents who loved each other was back in Tangier, at_ L'Americain— _when she'd been younger. In hindsight, Madeleine got the feeling their attempts at geniality were not for each other's sakes._

_Lately her father had been conferring with a number of men on the phone, much to her mother's dismay. This had to do with his work, which kept him away from the house for long hours and Madeleine was seldom up to see him return._

_The date was January 3rd, 1996. Madeleine was home for Christmas break. Her father_ _was also home, a rare occurrence in of itself. He'd made breakfast as a belated New Year's celebration and tried to cheer up her mother to limited success, but at least they weren't arguing._

_Madeleine was wearing her favourite winter coat—the rainbow one—reading a book in her room when she first heard the sound of the motorised dory approaching the dock. As the sound persisted she glanced out of her window to see who it was, but from this distance it was impossible. She waited as the minutes passed, until the figure drew close enough to identify—a postman's attire, navy and yellow jacket, grey trousers, complete with cap. He disembarked and secured the dory but left the engine idling; Madeleine noted he was not the same postman whose service Mr. White usually employed—shorter and squat—but a wiry figure who walked with purpose._

_Perhaps her father had simply neglected to mention a delivery to_ maman _, in the hopes of improving her mood? As she glanced back at the book in her hands, a terrible, inexplicable feeling of unease came over her._

_There was a Beretta 92 downstairs, in the cabinet under the sink, next to the bleach. Her father had ensured she knew how to use it. As quickly as she could she crept towards the hall and made her way downstairs, footsteps muted by her socks, keeping strategically away from creaky floorboards and sticking to the carpet in the main hall. There came a knock at the door. Madeleine's heart hammered as she scurried to the kitchen—her parents had moved to the living room, plates in the sink yet to be cleaned._

_After checking that the coast was clear, she opened the cabinet. The Beretta was a solid, cold weight in her tiny hands. Better than nothing. The knocking persisted. Madeleine heard her mother's voice drifting in from the living room, slightly exasperated—"I'm not_ useless _, for God's sake!"—and shut the cabinet, heading for the stairs. Halfway to her destination she heard the gradual stride of her mother's footsteps, slower in recent years thanks to an onset of muscular sclerosis which ran in her side of the family. "Oh, Madeleine—what are you doing down here?"_

_"Sorry, Maman. I was going to ask Papa about the book I'm reading."_

_Madeleine was smart enough not to let her see the gun. "Oh, all right. Well, you can go ask him."_

_"Okay, Maman."_

_Approaching the door, her mother hesitated, looking back as though to call out to her father. She seemed to decide against it and turned the knob. The door flew open, battered on its hinges. Her mother's protest was interrupted when the postman shot her twice, in the head and the chest—_ a silenced pistol _, Madeleine thought instinctively. Her mother crumpled to the floor. The assassin in postman's attire did not flinch. Madeleine could see now that he had a SMG slung over his right shoulder, resting at his hip._

_The most frightening thing about him was his face—rather, a painted mask that betrayed no emotion, save for a cruelness in the eyes that pierced her down to the bone. They regarded each other in silence, but he never said a word. As he turned to leave, Madeleine's mind was reeling but not devoid of purpose; her hands were suddenly calm as she raised the Beretta, aiming at his head—exhaling, squeezed the trigger—_

_The mask shattered, such a loud sound in the empty room. Instead of crumpling to the ground as her_ maman _had, the man staggered, caught off guard, but did not vocalise above a pained snarl. He worked his jaw for a second as though he were trying to physically recalibrate. Madeleine felt her heart clawing its way into her throat, unable to breathe._

 _The masked man's head snapped in the direction of her father's voice—_ "The hell is going on?" _—then he raised his open palm towards her, lips pulled back into a grimace, his teeth stained red. He did not open fire but his message was clear:_ you did not see me. Don’t push your luck any further _. Madeleine wasn't going to hesitate. She aimed for his head and shot—this time the masked man anticipated it, bolting out into the snow._

_She was still standing in the doorway, clutching the gun when her father caught up to her. She heard him curse. Then he forced himself to be calm in the old family tradition._

_"Madeleine," he said without looking up once. "Go to your room."_

_Madeleine didn't wait to see what happened next. Once inside her room, she hid under the window, biting back tears. She listened for the sound of footsteps heavy in the hall or gunfire, but nothing happened. She could not actually bring herself to cry. Her father was on the phone again, very quietly. She could hear him pacing throughout the hall. Then he snapped, and starting using words Madeleine had seldom heard him use except in private conversation—not foul language but a series of numbers and names she had been told never to repeat to anyone else. Eventually, though, he seemed to calm down, but not before she heard him say: “Yes, I understand, that is how it is. But not in front of my daughter!”_

_With no recourse, Madeleine curled herself in a little ball behind her bed, still clutching the Beretta. She did not move from her position until her father came upstairs and found her there. He was very pale, but he asked if she was hurt. Madeleine shook her head. He did not embrace her. He told her he was exceptionally proud of her, and sorry she’d had to see all of that—Madeleine was half-listening. Her eyes trained on the snow outstretching for many miles beyond, searching for a pair of red footprints._

⁂

Late July brought hotter weather, a brittle peace, strained by an increase in casualties related to the Red Death. The cure was still out of reach, and as the days grew hotter the stench of rot became more pronounced.

Really, it was only a matter of time before there was an incident.

The morning was quiet, Madeleine recalled. She looked outside her tent and found it was not yet sunrise. Then all of a sudden there came the sound of screams, gunfire. At first she thought it was a dream until Clyde grabbed her shoulder and told her to get up quickly.

The firing started up again, closer than before, then another period of silence. Madeleine's stomach knotted in the wake of a distant keening, much too human to be ignored. She and the rest of the MSF turned in time to see a dozen men with guns surrounding them, sans insignia. The interpreter was conferring with the head of staff, the latter of whom was now currently in a heated discourse with the leader of the insurgents, back and forth in French:

_"There's no need for additional bloodshed. If you give us time, we can work out a better solution for both parties."_

_"We've waited long enough. You still don't have a cure, you'd rather use our lives at our own expense. You take our families—"_

_"—yes, as we must quarantine—"_

_"—and they never come back! What will happen to us? Where is the cure?"_

Madeleine looked around desperately for a sign of help to come, but found none. The men were advancing.

Shouts filled the air, panic and rage blending together into discord—then the firing resumed. Several MSF around her fell dead and the rest began to protest. Madeleine ducked, prostrated herself without hesitation, covering her neck, willing herself not to scream. In that moment, all rational thoughts abandoned her and she was only nine again, transfixed in the memory of her mother's blood.

The gunfire did not abate. More shouting filled the air. Madeleine dared not raise her head to see who was winning.

But as soon as it had started, it was over. In the ensuing silence her ears continued to ring. The smell of iron flooded her nostrils, and she waited for the muzzle of a gun on her head, a bullet to piece her skull.

"Dr Swann." A hand grasped her shoulder. "On your feet. We need to get you someplace safe."

She cringed. The sound that came out of her was nothing like human speech but pitiful, closer to a wounded animal. A soldier pulled her upright. The bodies at her feet were still warm, and she was covered in their blood and ruddy earth.

"Dr Swann."

That was Safin.

In a state of unreckonable anguish, all Madeleine could do was cling to the simple, miraculous truth that he was still breathing. She curled herself into his shoulder and refused to let go.

Safin paused, but he did not push her away. To the reservists accompanying him he said: "Let's get moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incidentally, the masked assailant is meant to be wearing [the uniform on the left](http://www.uniform-museum.de/post.html). It was all I could find in terms of attire; assuming from the aesthetic of the website and camera quality in the photos that this is appropriate for the time period, which would be 1996. If I'm mistaken somehow or on the right track, please feel free to let me know!
> 
>  **NOTE: 12/08/20:** In the process of revising chapters 1-5 for the sake of narrative coherence. Madeleine, Clyde, and Mr. White's characterization have been altered slightly. The masked man also is a little more active in his introductory scene.


	2. GRATITUDE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madeleine returns to Paris, but all is not as it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. There was a surprising amount of work to be done figuring out Safin's backstory and ulterior motives but I've ironed it out as necessary. Thanks for waiting!

In the wake of the first wave of insurgents came a cold and empty stillness that reminded Madeleine of an oncoming storm. Each burst of gunfire sounded off in an unpredictable staccato that made her flinch. From her current perspective it was impossible to tell if they were approaching or departing from the source of the violence. The stench of mud and iron and bodily waste pervaded her senses.

The PHANTOM soldiers surrounding her and Safin did not speak. They merely transported her away from the Donka Hospital and over the road in the back of an unmarked Jeep. Madeleine ought to have taken some relief knowing that she was in better company than the local militia, but she thought again of the bloody pile of men and women torn apart by gunfire and wondered for what purpose she had been spared.

As they pulled onto the main road, she noticed several more unmarked cars heading back they way they'd came and her mind finally made the connection her emotions would not. Her head swivelled around to follow their path until out-of-sight.

"Don't look. It won't do you any good."

Safin's voice again. Madeleine twisted back around to face the front. She tried to shrink deeper into herself, attempting to find refuge in the knowledge that she was alive but all that came back to her was a silent, suffocating awareness that bordered on hysteria.

What gave her such a right to continue living, above all others? Mere chance, or a crueller schism to which she was unaware, the same twist of fate that had snuffed out her mother's life? She had not come here out of the goodness of her heart, no sense of duty; only the need to turn invisible, hiding from the shadowy grasp hovering over her head from the day she was born. Now, in the middle of a warzone, all she could do was think of her own survival.

Eventually they stopped and she was shepherded out of the Jeep, into another building she recognised vaguely as the Conakry International Airport; Madeleine felt the air on her face but failed to register. After a lengthy security check, Madeleine was directed towards a side room away from the main terminal. Several other MSF were already there, including the project coordinator, the latter of whom quickly assessed Madeleine, then put his arm around her and offered her a place to sit and some bottled water. The sign of familiar faces and a hypothetical cessation of hostilities invited ample opportunity for grief, but Madeleine found she could not produce tears. She looked down at her grimy hands around the plastic bottle and tried not to shake too much.

Then she stopped trembling, forcing herself to breathe evenly. As tempting as it was to give into fear right now, Madeleine knew she couldn't afford it. She scanned the room—there was a door that she'd came in through which led to the main airport, currently flanked by Safin's men, no windows. At the very least, the Mission heads had survived—no surprise there, she thought grimly.

"Dr Swann," a hand on her shoulder caused her to flinch and turn, meeting the unremarkable face of Peter Miller. "How are you feeling?"

Her father's voice popped into her head unbidden: _That one's most likely a mole_. Madeleine glanced at her hands, still around the plastic water bottle, caked with dirt and dry blood but no longer trembling. "I don't know."

"She's most likely in shock," said a man from the medical unit. "Give her time."

Miller nodded. "Terribly sorry about what's happened."

"The situation has changed," announced the project coordinator. "This morning several members of Guinea's Republican Guard were reported to have symptoms that would suggest they've contracted the Red Death virus. They received vaccinations a week prior, and due to various concerns about the nature of this virus, the civilians are placing blame upon the MSF for tampering with the vaccine. Given the short notice of time, there is not yet a clear indication of causation.

"Thanks to the efforts of our security detail and their cooperation with Logistics—" here, he glanced at Safin "—most of the high-risk patients have been recovered, and we've minimised our own casualties. Unfortunately," turning to Madeleine, "it would appear you are the sole survivor of the Psychosocial Unit, Dr Swann."

Madeleine looked over to Safin and held his gaze, trying to ascertain some clue in his impassive expression— _why was I spared? What do you know that I don't?_

After the briefing, the project coordinator took Madeleine aside. "What is the duration of your assignment as psychologist consultant, Dr Swann?"

"Three months. I started in May."

"Then, they'll have to find another consultant." Madeleine looked up incredulously as Safin materialised as if from nowhere. "Dr Swann. Is there anyone you would like to contact?"

_I can't reach out my father. Not after everything we've been through._

So Madeleine provided Safin the name of her old boyfriend, certain that Arnaud would at least offer his sympathies, if not a place to stay.

"All right. You should be back home very soon."

Miller was watching them out of the corner of his eye. As Madeleine looked at him he turned away and their silent exchange might never have happened.

⁂

True to Safin's word, within the same evening Madeleine was on a plane back to France.

She'd made arrangements via a sheepish phone call with Arnaud, who picked her up from Air France airport the following morning. At the reception Arnaud was diligent enough not to greet her with an interrogation, only a _hello_ and quick hug—normally Madeleine would have tried to squirm out of such embraces, but now she was numbed and grateful to be in the arms of someone who wasn't dead or a stranger.

On the drive back he left her in silence, something which Madeleine had always appreciated about him before. Now the silence was like poison, reminding her too much of the ride in the Jeep and the stench of death amid humidity. Madeleine did not want to be in the company of her own paranoia. Her hands wandered towards the radio dial and Arnaud finally glanced over in concern.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Madeleine had to fight down the urge to laugh; such a simple, blasé statement, phrased so delicately. "There's not much to speak of. I did my job and there were complications."

"It's not your fault," he said, frowning. "You did the best you could in spite of the situation."

She tried asking what was up with him and Arnaud gave her some rote answer— _oh, you know, same old business as always, nothing as exciting as your situation_ —before she threw him a look and the conversation died out.

⁂

The week inched by while Madeleine settled back uneasily into routine. The situation in Africa had quelled enough to make headlines, though fears had not.

The official story circulating was that the outbreak of the Red Death had been nullified, and the government was looking into the true cause alongside the MSF. Smaller outlets noted the exceptional work of the PHANTOM team and its head of security as a sharp contrast to the usual brutality exercised by the traditional military. Others debated whether or not the MSF had been corrupted from the inside, or otherwise hindered for the sake of some political gain alongside burgeoning distrust of the government. Speculation ran rampant regardless of the news anchor; opinions of the MSF that came from outside their own group were far less favourable. Culpability was trickier to pin down in the midst of a crisis, when everyone wanted a piece to spin their own narrative.

Madeleine lived in the 7th _arrondissement_ and Arnaud lived in the 8th; they both worked in separate clinics in the 15th. Originally Madeleine had picked her flat because it was only one room and the rent was €720 a month; she didn't want to get too attached to the idea of living in one place for too long. Arnaud was coming around her flat every day to visit, and Madeleine accepted his presence in his life without much protest, the way one might grow to endear a stray pet. Initially he was understanding when she said she didn't feel safe going with him to the café. He'd already convinced Madeleine to at least allow for an in-house party the coming weekend.

Meanwhile, Madeleine attempted to talk to her friends and co-workers about uneventful minutia in the hopes of feeling some connection to this prosaic sense of normalcy. She deflected their enquiries about the state of Conakry by regurgitating the line she had fed Arnaud— _there's not much to speak of_ —and even found a new appreciation for the stupid faux flowers in her office.

Everywhere she looked there were men and women watching from the corner of her eyes, down the street, at work—she found it difficult to sleep, and the only outlet she had for condolence was Arnaud.

A week after Madeleine's return to Paris, Arnaud turned up at her flat unannounced and offered to take her out to dinner. Madeleine was, initially, a bit annoyed at the spontaneity of his offer when she was still reeling from what had come to pass, but she expressed her concerns in a more civilised manner and agreed—she couldn't live her whole life in fear.

At the old favourite café, they just sat together, not talking but nevertheless appreciating the company of each other. When he dropped her off at her flat Madeleine even allowed him a shred of truth, told him she didn't want to be alone. Arnaud misinterpreted her want for another, and Madeleine, feeling rather forlorn, neglected to correct him. They had sex for the first time in months and she fell asleep with the simple comfort of holding someone warm.

⁂

_For about two or three years after the death of her mother, Madeleine used to have vivid, reoccurring nightmares about the assassination._

_She was always in the old cabin, alone, looking for her Papa's Berretta. Her mother always lay dead in the foyer. Madeleine could only revisit this site so many times until her emotional connection stopped registering with the corpse on the floor._

_She would make it to the kitchen and find the cabinet empty, and she'd scream—_ maman _—before a sudden blow to her gut caused her to stumble, falling into the cabinet and watching her own blood spill across her tiny hands. It hurt the faster she breathed, but all the masked assassin ever did was watch her die. Sometimes he shot her in the head before she could call for her parents at all. There was never any pain, because Madeleine couldn't imagine what this would feel like; the idea of being gunned down in her own house frightened her enough that she would often wake up proactively, half-expecting the real thing._

_These nightmares continued, even after her father sent her to the International School of France._

_Though blood could be cleaned away and the funeral passed, Madeleine slept with one eye open. Her father offered several times to take her to a professional, but what would Madeleine have said? That the nature of her father's work led an assassin to their door? That she still dreamt about it, years later? That, in spite of loving her_ maman _very much, she couldn't help but feel lighter without the arguments and worrying if her parents would divorce, or having to watch her struggle with her illness and her father's worries coming out in the guise of frustration?_

_She did talk about the loss with her roommate, for it was not so incriminating as to ignore; yes, the loss of her mother. Had they been close, asked her roommate? How did she feel about her father? Madeleine kept her answers tidy and mundane._

_Years later, she could afford a little hindsight. If Madeleine allowed herself to separate the emotional aspect of the trauma and consider her own worldview as she would a patient's, she would most likely chalk the nightmares up to an unaddressed sense of abandonment and insecurity towards her father for giving her the tools to defend herself, but no emotional support. But Madeleine wasn't as far removed from her own baggage as she would ever care to admit, and so this answer lay buried and unaddressed under layers of resentment._

⁂

Whenever she wasn't working, Madeleine had time to reflect. The procedures undertaken by the MSF had not seemed unorthodox in hindsight. Things had only gotten out of hand _after_ their apparent success. Civil unrest came from a lack of trust between the locals and the MSF; but it wasn't as though the MSF had not made a serious effort to signify the gravity of the circumstances. Either the locals were unwilling or unable to understand what was at stake, or someone else had reached them first, planting the seed of doubt too deeply to be uprooted by any rational argument. But who could have done so, and at what capacity?

Her thoughts came back, as always, to her father and his ilk at SPECTRE. Was it possible her father had simply come to view her as a burden, the same as her late mother, and attempted to have her taken care of? The prospect of contacting her father hadn't crossed her mind. Usually the thought of him incited no emotional investment, but she could not determine whether she was angrier at him or herself for considering him as an option. She'd already made so much progress on her own, without his meddling. If she were to reach out she'd only be going back on all that work—and what were they supposed to talk about, the schism in Africa? Opening up to him ran another risk of confirming her worst fears, and Madeleine was smart enough to know that she couldn't be trusted to be entirely unemotional in the face of such an admittance. And as much as Madeleine liked to hold onto resentment for her father, she doubted he would suddenly wish her ill. He'd come to her graduation and paid for her classes and for all intents and purposes, left her to live in peace—with all the trouble he'd gone to, surely this indicated some kind of emotional attachment.

So Madeleine crossed him off the hit-list for now and continued to PHANTOM's head of security, Safin. Safin had been there for three months before she even showed up, and within five he had somehow managed to quell the unrest almost as quickly as it had sprung into fruition, only to slip away to be forgotten about but for a brief mention in the news. His timing seemed either inordinately or unsettlingly fortunate, depending on how one looked at it; but Madeleine had not forgotten him. She wasn't sure she could. But Safin had given her no reason to suspect he was out for her blood or anyone else's.

She turned to the last option: Peter Miller, easiest to overlook and possibly the most dangerous of all. The fact he was from Logistics—and that he'd supposedly confided with Safin about the assault on Donka Hospital—seemed all-the-more foreboding. But once again, apart from a strange look and one or two conversations she had no clue what he was up to. Of all the men that would thus resemble a dyed-in-the-wool SPECTRE operative, Peter seemed most fitting. But this was precisely what bothered Madeleine about him—he was _too_ obvious, almost to the point of convenience.

As a matter of fact, Madeleine was starting to entertain the notion this entire Red Death pandemic wasn't quite as severe as she'd been led to believe. Where were the rioters, the public outrage and mainstream news stories that had already gone away after only two weeks of circulation? Safin had been able to transport her and presumably the other patients without much trouble, but in the event of a real crisis there would be complications on a much larger scale. Not to mention, what had become of the infected members of the Republican Guard?

Madeleine had no idea who to talk to about her true feelings. It was like a cruel joke, really; all she did was listen to other people's problems, on and off the clock, but who on Earth was going to understand her plight? She felt guilt-ridden for fretting, given the world she had exited; away from the humid, fetid interior of Donka Hospital and tents and mosquito netting, and people who had no real say in their fate, back to her comfortable existence in France where these memories would disperse with enough time, unlike the sight of blood in the snow, pooling through the front door where the stain would last for years.

Surprisingly it was Arnaud of all people that called her up at five in the morning and said: "There's something you should see. Check the news."

Another, breaking headline: It had been officially determined the efforts of the MSF to deliver a vaccine had no clear correlation between the outbreak of the virus; moreover, the method of transfer seemed to have nothing to do at all with the safety measures partaken but some other undetermined factor. The MSF now had all eyes turned upon them.

They stayed up until morning talking about it. Madeleine did not think of past ties, only grateful than Arnaud could finally offer a purpose outside of his role as boyfriend for the sake of propriety. During this last week he'd shown more consideration for her interest bordering on obsession with Conakry than he had previously with any of her other hobbies—but they had different interests and that was understood. Well, she'd been away, it was only natural to warm up to her now that she'd been traumatised. The reintroduction of sex into the relationship, fleeting as it was, probably didn't hurt, either.

⁂

Three weeks after Madeleine returned to Paris, the HRO contacted her over email, apologising profusely for the state of affairs in Conakry and offering a few much less hazardous projects in other countries if she so preferred. What stuck out to Madeleine was the compliment: _you were exceptional in the crisis._ Madeleine liked to think she was exceptional in most crises thanks to her unique upbringing. In her mind this was less a sign of praise and more of a back-handed compliment, but she was certain it had not been written with that intent, so she tried not to take it personally.

She had a good debate with herself about whether or not to take up the offer, because it would inevitably separate her from Arnaud again. Even though her absences were justifiable, she couldn't be sure he would be as sympathetic about her throwing herself right back into danger after she'd narrowly avoided her death.

She did discuss the topic with him. It was the first disagreement they'd had in a little while, but that didn't entail any prior peace or an argument so much as a brittle armistice broken up by uncertainty. Arnaud simply told her brusquely that it was her life to live, not his.

Madeleine reminded herself that she was doing this for his sake as well as hers, no matter what she felt about him. It was not his fault her father's legacy had a way of following her around and ruining most chances at living an ordinary life. She told herself as she had many times before that she did not resent Arnaud for his ignorance.

From then on, however, Madeleine found it difficult to look most people in the eyes if they were discussing Africa's affairs. She'd kept to her job as a psychologist without any trouble thus far, able to immerse herself in the routine she'd once come to loathe. Before she'd left for Conakry, fear was a powerful enough motivator that she could fool herself into believing this method of existence was better than other alternatives.

But that had been in the past, and it was easy to see now that she'd been operating from a perspective of complacency. It didn't change the fact that her life in France was an undeniably temporary position, no different from her station in Conakry. So where to next? Probably she'd find a job as a psychologist in another country or take up that offer with MSF. She'd inevitably have to split off from Arnaud again regardless.

Whenever she was alone, she got the feeling something was off, like Arnaud was keeping something from her—his kindness seemed overplayed. Most likely he didn't want to hear about Conakry anymore because it was taking a toll on her happiness as much as his own. Having to look after her—or feeling compelled to do so—wasn't indicative of the kind of relationship they'd had before Conakry.

Maybe it was something deeper, such as an illicit affair? Probably so, it was not like they'd even touched each other up until a few weeks ago, and despite having sex once they were already back to where they'd been when she left, no physical contact, at odds with each other under the guise of civility. Madeleine wouldn't be angry 0as much as slightly disappointed to find out he was going out on her. But there was no point in bringing it up and marking herself as paranoid until he gave her evidence.

⁂

Of course, with the news about MSF it was only natural there would be protests. Madeleine didn't have it in her to care one way or the other, but now she had to get up a full hour earlier just to take an alternate path and arrive on-time without encountering said activists. Arnaud wasn't too happy about it either but for a different reason.

By now, he said, it was clear to him that her sense of self-importance was more important than their relationship. If he'd known he was signing up to be involved with her MSF duties then he would've reconsidered.

The former part of the argument was not strictly untrue, and Madeleine supposed his outburst wasn't that unfounded either, but it didn't sting any less for a man who she essentially just kept around for the sake of keeping up appearances.

She told him he was being pretty unfair. He responded he'd done his best to humour her about Conakry, but this was getting out of hand. Whenever they talked, it was like she was somewhere else and he couldn't stand watching her spin around in her own misery anymore. So as far as he was concerned they were done—not out of hatred, but exhaustion.

Really, Madeleine thought to blame it on the stress of what was going on in France. But she knew better than to lie to herself and him simultaneously. The only awkward part about breaking up with him would be having to see him react to her in passing every day at work. She was well-versed in the act of letting people go for their own good.

Little did she know she wouldn't have to.

⁂

The morning Arnaud died began like any other, with Madeleine leaving for work at 7 AM. She didn't think about Arnaud, or the situation with the MSF or Safin or anything troublesome. She was thinking of the weather, hoping it rained now rather than when she got off her shift so she wouldn't have to walk home in a downpour. By the time she got to her office it was 9 AM.

A little over an hour into her first session with a client, she received a very worried call from the front office. It was the police, more specifically men from the _Brigade criminelle_ , who wanted to talk to Madeleine and would not take no for answer.

With a contrite apology and a much colder vice in her stomach, Madeleine escorted the client out while the officers came to substitute. Officer Blois, a middle-aged man with red hair and a mole on the side of his chin, introduced himself accordingly and offered his hand to shake.

Madeleine accepted, then caught sight of the other man and froze in the middle of the gesture. Safin's face was difficult to forget. He stood by the door as if he'd simply sprung into existence out of an old recollection and into reality.

"Well, it's not good news, I'll get right to the point. Arnaud is dead," said Officer Blois gravely. "He was found this morning in his apartment. His injuries would indicate he was shot. Nothing was taken from the apartment. There was a note stapled to his shirt—the grievances seem to point back to the mission in Guinea, in which you were recently involved."

Safin wouldn't look directly at her, but Madeleine didn't need to meet his eyes; she already had a horrible feeling about this situation.

"He was found this morning?" Madeleine reiterated. Officer Blois misinterpreted the nature of her unease.

"That's right. Was he involved directly in your activities with MSF?"

"No, he wasn't."

"Did he have any prior knowledge of your activities?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any reason to suspect he would have made himself a target by doing so?"

"I don't know, Officer."

"Is there anyone in his life that would wish him or yourself ill?"

"No one, he had—friends, but we didn't talk much, I don't think they had anything to do with it."

Officer Blois turned to Safin, possibly because Madeleine kept glancing at him, at which point the latter said: "I'll handle it from here."

Officer Blois looked from Madeleine's desperate expression to Safin's unreadable one, frowned. "Are you sure there's nothing—?"

"Officer Blois—" another woman opened the door, also in uniform "—we've got some new information, do you have a minute?"

Officer Blois's eyes rested on Safin for a second before he left the two of them in the room. Safin did not take a seat but walked over to stand in front of her.

"To ensure the safety of each client," he began without invitation, "I have to follow through. There's been enough trouble ever since you left Africa that I'm liable to investigate. My team was not offering protection to the MSF alone."

"You're _protecting_ me now? Under whose authority?"

"Drop the act for a moment. Who do you think is after you?"

"How should I know?"

"If that were true, we wouldn't be talking. You evidently have some ideas of your own."

"I've done nothing to warrant this."

"You've been avoiding my eyes ever since Officer Blois brought up the topic, do you realise?" Madeleine forced herself to look at him.

"Arnaud's dead," Madeleine said. "He knew I worked with the MSF, but didn't know about the details."

"Are you certain?" Madeleine had no retort but held his gaze. Safin assessed her for a moment. "What about Friedrich König?" Any of the police could have looked up her records—but Madeleine was definitely starting to get the impression she was in deeper water than she'd been before. Safin zeroed in on her hesitation: "When was the last time you spoke to your father?"

"Not for a long time. I stopped contact with him—"

"—has he contacted you at all this year?"

"He wouldn't. We're living separate lives."

"Then, you wouldn't be privy to what has been going on. Regardless of the state of your current relationship, I can assure you his decision to cut off contact was made out of concern for your safety. But the situation has gotten too severe to ignore. Your father wishes to see you."

"Hm. I suppose you are the messenger?"

"Yes."

"Well, you can tell him to go to hell, I don't want him meddling in my life."

An unpleasant smile twisted Safin's mouth. "You may tell him whatever you like in person."

"In person?"

"There is a safehouse set aside for you in Sion where you'll be stationed in the meantime. Your HR manager has already been informed you'll be taking two weeks off at short-notice and returning summarily, if there are no further complications. Once you step outside this building, you'll be collected by my team and taken to the train station."

Madeleine shot him a very foul look that went unreciprocated. "And you expect me to just go along with you?"

"Your family's reputation precedes you. You are no safer here in France than you were in Conakry. I doubt Arnaud was the first person you've had to sacrifice. No matter where you go or what you do, the only way these personal incidents will stop is when you're dead in a box, mailed to Friedrich König's door." Madeleine fumed at him but did not push her luck. "Now, if you're finished trying to be defiant, I'll explain how you will be transported."

⁂

That the situation would escalate to this level of severity came as no real surprise to Madeleine. She already treated her life in Paris like a perpetual vacation with none of the fun and all of the transience, because in the back of her mind she knew one day she might be followed home and summarily executed.

This was, incidentally, the second time she had relocated in five years and she'd gotten used to looking over her shoulder, living not in total fear but with an aggrieved awareness. No surprise that she would have trouble sleeping. She was not yet paranoid enough to start keeping a gun under her pillow—she'd have a hard-enough time explaining that to Arnaud or anyone else.

Well, she wouldn't have to worry about him anymore. It was enough to make her want to board the train as quickly as possible so she wouldn't have to think about what a cut-throat person she had become in spite of her father's absence.

She was guided out the door by two men who did not speak to her, and steered discreetly into the black Mercedes-Benz Sprinter waiting quietly by the curbside.

It was a twenty minute drive to Paris- _Gare de Lyon_. On the way Madeleine was provided a couple of first-class tickets for Swiss Federal Railway and the appropriate gate number. Several suspiciously uneventful minutes later she was at the station, boarding the train, taking her seat closest to the aisle while the two men took up seats by the door and adjacent to her row respectively. She looked about the car for Safin but could not pin down his face—it would be difficult to mistake him for anyone else; but he took the seat directly adjacent her without a word. As the train began to move, Madeleine settled into an uneasy sort of acceptance of her situation. She stared out the window for wont of anything better to do.

"If you have any questions, Dr Swann, now is the time to ask. Otherwise I suppose you're just going to pretend I don't exist for the next few hours?"

Safin didn't seem like the type of person to strike up conversation without a good reason. Madeleine glanced at him. "I didn't ask for this life, you know."

" _This_ life?"

"Moving around every couple years. Watching everyone around me wither and die or settle down while I live in the shadow of my father and the organisation he answers to."

"You speak as though you've been a part of it yourself."

Madeleine scowled. "I understand enough. But I will not be mistaken for one of their operatives."

"Operatives?"

"Don't pretend like you are ignorant. You are another one of SPECTRE's dogs. That's what this is really about, isn't it?"

Something changed in his eyes; the same readability that wasn't pleasant. "So, you dislike your father's methods enough to live away from him, but you took his dirty money to get ahead. If you're trying to engender pity, there are better ways to do so."

"And what is your point?" Madeleine snapped.

"You're the psychologist. You tell me." All right, now he was trying to be funny. Or perhaps not. Safin didn't seem like the type to lighten the mood, anyway. Madeleine wasn't sure she'd be able to tolerate half-an-hour of this, let alone five. The look Safin was giving her would indicate that sentiment was mutual.

"I don't want your pity," she said, tearing her eyes towards the window.

"Fair enough. But if we're going to talk, I'd prefer your undivided attention." Madeleine waited until his scowl deepened. "I've never had to point a gun at your head to get you to comply, Dr Swann. I don't want to start now."

Madeleine turned her head to face him, feeling a little nauseous but refusing to let it show. "You think you can intimidate me?" Safin gave her a very impatient look. She reconsidered her approach. "You are protecting me under my father's authority, correct?"

"Yes, Dr Swann."

"Then, I want to speak with him."

"In two weeks."

"And why should I take you at your word?"

"Because, Dr Swann, if I wanted you dead, you would have never boarded the plane back to France."

Madeleine balked. Safin studied her a moment, then lost interest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDIT 09/25/20:** Have added a few details to improve the pacing and characterization, as well as help give a little sense of where Madeleine is. The original ending was rushed to meet the weekly deadline, so that's been revised as well.
> 
> EDIT 12/08/20: Cleaned up Madeleine and Safin's dialogue and overall correct the "Americanized" vibe.


	3. HEDGEHOG'S DILEMMA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madeleine adjusts to her new situation and the presence of her keeper.

Half an hour into their first train from Paris to Genève, things remained suspiciously uneventful. While the initial sense of animosity between Madeleine and her travelling partner had dissipated somewhat, the tension still lingered, unspoken. Now, Madeleine might still have her scruples with this current situation, but she was not bull-headed enough to remain in a foul disposition for too long when she could instead start digging for information. She could probably get a better estimation of the kind of man Safin was in this three-hour train ride than at most other given opportunities.

With the aid of daylight and closer proximity, his age became more evident; placing him somewhere around his early-to-mid-thirties, though the scarring threw off this estimate by a fair margin. He was dressed smartly, as were his associates, though not in a manner that would make any of them particularly stand out among other first-class passengers or tourists—for all intents and purposes, their group might as well be comprised of entrepreneurs on a commute. (Madeleine was a little more muted—grey trousers, her nicest white blouse in an effort to cheer herself up, a light-blue cardigan to match her shoes. She’d been keeping her hair in a severe bun; the sunlight beaming on the side of her head warmed her past the point of languid ease.)

His hands were gloved; so, the climate made no difference. Perhaps the scarring was more severe than she’d originally inferred. Madeleine returned to the working theory that he'd suffered some kind of injury or incident in youth. A second possibility was that he'd been born with an underlying condition, learnt to work around it for the sake of his occupation. But Madeleine wasn't a dermatologist, she had no idea if the latter explanation held any merit, and it would only make her intentions that more obvious by asking without any pretence. Not to mention it wasn’t very polite.

It was no help that Safin proved a difficult subject for scrutiny. He was not unresponsive or truly stoic so much as reserved, not to the point of coming across as obviously reticent. Assuming he was well-acquainted with her role as psychologist, he would inevitably change his method of approach to suit her demeanour—why start a conversation when he could simply let her reveal her own vulnerability through ignorance and rumination? Madeleine wasn't about to wait for him to spin this situation into whatever narrative he saw fit. Pushing down her lingering irritation, she considered her approach. If she avoided his gaze or looked him dead-on it would seem as if she were afraid or trying to overcompensate. She fixed her gaze a little to the side of his face as she spoke:

"I understand you've informed the HR manager about my situation. What did you tell her, exactly?"

"That you were feeling overwhelmed with the death of Arnaud, and thus needed some time off."

Madeleine scowled. "She will never buy that. All I've done at the clinic is work through my problems."

"No different from how you spent your time with the MSF?"

"No," said Madeleine, with a cold, slightly haughty slant to her voice that lent from her father's own business demeanour—she'd put her own spin on it some time ago and it had served her well ever since, "but you are missing the point. You don't know very much about how I operate outside of my occupation. You cannot get all the nuances about a person from a background check."

“Your HR manager mentioned you, when pressed. She seemed quite concerned."

"Oh?"

"From what I understand, she seems to think that you'll be working yourself to death in about twenty years if you do not take a little time for yourself."

Madeleine scowled. "I don't see why she would tell you—"

"I didn't enquire about your work habits. I’m only telling you because it happens to pertain to your situation. In my profession, people tell me a lot of things I don't ask for, but I try not to take it personally. You'd know what that's like, I'm sure."

Madeleine said: “I suppose.” A noncommittal, even-headed response—no harm done. Safin’s expression did not change and she gave up, lapsing back into stilted silence. Now her thoughts began to wander. By any luck, they'd be in Sion around mid-afternoon to early evening, assuming there were no more incidents along the way. She couldn't afford to get complacent any more than Safin and his associates could help themselves from scanning the train car for potential threats; it was in their natures to assess constantly and diligently. She took notice because she was not brought up to be idle-minded.

She thought next, with a tinge of regret closer to resentment, of the Beretta 92A1 in her bag, stowed away in its custom holster. The gun was one of the few gifts from her father she had accepted willingly, but the last time it had seen any proper use was in 2010—there had been a minor incident.

It was late evening, a balmy summer in Oxfordshire—for once she had allowed herself to be careless, stay out on her own, settling down where she would be known. Perhaps, however foolishly, she'd thought she wanted to be recognised by someone else. She'd had a nice to herself and didn't want to notice the man a few tables down in the suit that kept looking over at her. By the time they were on the way to her flat she knew she could not ignore him indefinitely. She'd turned down a side-street just to be sure—and he'd followed.

She remembered her palms were clammy but in the moment she had been level-headed. She hadn’t actually been forced to shoot him so much as threaten to. It had not stopped him outright but it had caught him by surprise, giving her enough time to lose him in the dark streets and check into a less reputable hotel off of under a false name and a nauseating pit in her stomach.

Not long after this she had moved to Paris in a bid to start anew. The lack of an obvious threat helped her to accept the façade of a life where she wouldn’t have to look over her shoulder. Right now it was tempting to kick herself for the conceit—but even so, it was on account of her own vigilance that she had survived at all. Though the gun was vital, the act of killing someone was in her mind just another means of lowering herself to the level of her father and his ilk. Resorting to a tenuous pacifism was her only way of attaining some agency.

The attendant came over smelling of some artificial vanilla and enquired if they would need anything. Madeleine felt a rush of saliva flood her mouth as before vomiting and shook her head. The attendant peered at her with slight concern.

“Everything’s fine, thank you,” said Safin coolly.

Madeleine threw him a bitter look as the attendant continued her route down the aisle—her sentiment was not reciprocated. In a bid to shove down her own discomfort, she found her voice: "So, you run your own team."

"Yes, Dr Swann."

"How long have you been operating?"

"Fourteen years."

"Hm. That’s quite a long time." Oh God, she hated this conversation already. "Forgive me, but I've never heard of the organisation before."

"Our operations tend to stray away from the public eye. The situation in Conakry was an exception."

"I see." A simple turn of phrase deflecting his connections, or an honest answer? All she'd done was illuminate her own suspicions by injecting SPECTRE directly into the conversation—she could reason it was to test his reaction. Then again, SPECTRE wasn't exactly a household name; it was unlikely ordinary people would have an idea of what she was talking about. So far Safin had neither confirmed nor denied the insinuation. Madeleine was getting pretty tired of second-guessing every sentence. At the same time she was overcome with a strange, uncharacteristic need to talk, grasping for a conversation topic that wouldn't completely sabotage her own intentions. “Well, your people didn’t stick around for long in the headlines.”

“You’ve been investigating on your own time?”

“Something like that. Are you going to tell me I was wrong to do so?”

“In over your head, perhaps, but not wrong. Look what it’s cost you.”

“Arnaud’s dead,” said Madeleine, as if that were the end of the topic. Safin surveyed her coolly. She simpered. “I am aware my father isn’t here to answer all my questions—but you’ll do.”

“Very well, Dr Swann. What else would you like to know?”

Madeleine hesitated. Surely it wasn’t so easy. If she were to balk now that would only give Safin more reason to change his mind, presume she’d wasted his time—that was the last impression she wanted to make. “You have referred to him by name several times already. It is uncommon for anyone to do so, particularly those he works with.”

"I thought you were not close with your father."

"We are not close. But there are little details I can still remember after so many years. When I was thirteen, I used to come back from studying abroad because he would not let me go on my own. He must have thought I would endanger myself, I don't know, we did not discuss it at length. So I would stay with him for a few months each year and go back to school for the remainder of the time until I was seventeen. But while I was home he would often work from the basement. Whenever he was attending a meeting, he would only answer to a title. I simply find it curious that you are using his name, not that you know it."

"You don't talk to your father much?"

"I stopped talking to him when I went to Oxford."

"And, your mother?"

Madeleine froze. She averted her face towards the window. "She's been dead for several years. I haven’t visited her grave since I went off to college."

Something indecipherable flashed in his eyes, gone just as quickly. "My apologies."

"Well, what else could you know? I didn't tell you anything about her. You probably looked her up as well." He didn't refute this. Madeleine frowned slightly. “What about QUANTUM?” Safin glanced over at her. “They went under in 2008, didn’t they?”

“That is the story put into circulation by most media outlets, yes. You know the syndicate by name.”

"I should." She lowered her voice. "It was my father's." Now she had his attention. Madeleine knew enough to keep her distance from anything incriminating. “There was an incident in Bolivia, so it was all over the news. Dominic Greene, the economic entrepreneur. He lost his company as well as his life. At the time it was deemed a political assault because several key members of the Bolivian military were involved, but nothing else substantial came of it.”

“There was an oil explosion at the hotel.” He was watching her closely. “Bolivian General Medrano was also killed. Do you know why?”

“I can guess. But I suppose you are going to enlighten me.”

“At the time, Greene was helping General Medrano to stage a coup so he would be instated as their new president. In exchange, Medrano gave Greene access to a seemingly useless piece of land in the Atacama Desert. It was, in fact, the site of an underground dam—the idea was to take over the majority of Bolivia's water supply for an exorbitant amount of money. Now, Greene wanted Medrano to sign away on this officially; or else he would deprive the country of water until they ceded in his stead.” A cold smile crossed his face but didn’t reach his eyes. “It did not work out for either of them. In the end it was a matter of intervention by outside forces. But that is a matter of entrusting your responsibilities to someone who is best for the job instead of settling for someone easy to control. Perhaps Greene thought he could outsmart Medrano in the long run. Perhaps Medrano planned to assassinate him afterwards—we’ll never know. As far as you’re concerned, your father suffered the loss of his company due to the failings of an undeserving subordinate, and it could be argued you are suffering as well.”

Madeleine half-wondered where he had gotten all of this information. It would be better off saving the pertinent questions for a better time. “All of that happened years ago, while I was abroad, and I—my father and I were not talking then. He never mentioned anything about his business with me."

"But you know QUANTUM."

"Only because of his work. After my mother died, he wanted me to be aware of who I was and what I stood to lose, and I listened because I was a child and didn't know better. That was before I realised I didn't have to immerse myself in his sick life.”

“Perhaps he wanted to keep you safe.”

“He wanted me out of his life,” Madeleine insisted. “That’s how he has always been. He would never let me see his shame directly.”

“I see.”

Madeleine scowled. She’d talked about herself enough already. "I hope you realise I don't have much on me."

"There was not enough time to collect anything from your flat. You'll be provided any necessary provisions when we reach the safehouse in Sion."

"And that was decided by him, or you?" Safin held her gaze. "Well, you are doing this on his behalf, are you not?"

“I am not at liberty to discuss the current matter beyond what you have been told. It is as a matter of your safety as much as anyone else's.”

“You knew enough about Greene.”

“Yes, but he is already dead. I’ve inferred much of what I know.”

“I suppose you will also tell me you are secretly an assassin.”

The look Safin gave her would suggest he was slightly affronted. “Are you going to ask me what it feels like to kill someone?”

Madeleine bristled. “Very funny.”

He did not smile. Back to silence until the attendant passed by again, accompanied by the scent of faux-vanilla.

Madeleine couldn't stand to sit another minute. She got up.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Dining car. I haven't eaten since this morning."

"Unaccompanied?"

Madeleine stopped, scowled again. Safin glanced at the associate adjacent, nodded. The man got up and followed Madeleine out into the next car.

⁂

Several minutes later Madeleine returned, looking tetchy but no worse for wear.

“Welcome back, Dr Swann.”

“Fine. Though I could have done without an escort.”

Safin glanced at the associate who was now sitting a few rows down. “I’m glad there were no complications.”

“Yes, I would certainly hope not,” Madeleine muttered. It was not like she wanted to confide anything in a fellow like Safin. With every sentence that left her mouth she had the feeling he would use it against her somewhere down the line. But the only way Madeleine was going to get anywhere was by making conversation—and all she had been doing was making a fool of herself.

Safin drew a quiet breath. "I'm not one of your patients, Dr Swann. You don't have to try and figure me out."

“I was not trying to do anything,” she said tersely, reflexively. 

Silence resumed. She finally glanced over at him for wont of something better to do and of course, he initiated: “Do you enjoy your work?”

It was such an ordinary question that Madeleine forgot to be angry. “Psychology?”

“Yes.”

“I… well, truthfully there are days where it is stressful, but better than nothing. I think I have found a sense of place.” She said this in the manner one might speak of coming to enjoy any other second or third-rate occupational outcome—grudgingly, but with a hard-won measure of truth that smacked of resignation. “And I suppose that I am already used to listening to others’ problems.” Time to change the subject. “You are pleased with where you are?"

"For the most part. But then, that's true of anybody."

Well, perhaps such a rote question deserved an equally rote response. Assuming he had not suddenly decided to be more genial, it was not out of the question that Safin was simply providing her just enough information to incite an emotional response. She could hardly bring her suspicions to the forefront without becoming complicit—that was becoming a worrying theme with their conversations. All the while, Safin watched her expression transform from anger to one of embittered resignation. Then he threw her for another loop:

“Let me give you a hypothetical scenario. Say you’re the head of a company. In particular, there are two primary associates you've come to trust: one by the name of Rodriguez and another named Lynd, man and woman respectively. Rodriguez is undertaking an operation to defraud a rival company for the sake of—let’s say monetary gain. Legality is irrelevant. Soon after, Lynd tells you she suspects Rodriguez is working in the interest of the rival company. Not only that, but he has been feeding them information about your activity that could easily undermine your entire operation.”

“How can I be sure Lynd is to be trusted?” Madeleine muttered.

“You have her word.”

“That’s it?”

“Let’s assume, to your knowledge, that she’s never lied before, and you’ve treated both of them equitably enough.”

Madeleine frowned. “So I investigate Rodriguez in secret.”

“How will you ensure he doesn’t know?”

“Lynd. She’s clearly been watching him for a while if she knows this much information. Of course, this would presume Rodriguez doesn’t know of this himself.”

“Of course.”

“Why would Rodriguez want to undermine—” another terse look “—yes, I don’t know yet. I suppose I must wait for him to come back. If he isn’t guilty, then there shouldn’t be an issue.”

“Are you going to inform Lynd?”

Madeleine paused. “Not yet. I don’t know if she can be trusted.”

“Circumstances change. One night Rodriguez returns and delivers the news that the operation was successful. But he tips you off that Lynd is trying to set you both up."

"I don't happen to have bodyguards in this hypothetical scenario?"

"Think in simplest terms. What methods can you take to protect yourself?"

"Well, if I am conducting business of a questionable nature I wouldn't be walking anywhere without a gun."

A curt nod. "The following morning, you discover Lynd has been shot and Rodriguez has a gun. He confesses that he wants revenge against you, and couldn’t give a damn about the money or the mission. He claims Lynd was complicit, but her heart wasn’t in it. Once she realised he was going to bring down the entire organisation she appealed to you, thinking you would take her side. Knowing this, would take him into captivity and torture him in a bid to humiliate him further or gain information? Or would you simply deny him that power over you, put a bullet in his head, and set both their fates as an example to your more capable subordinates?”

“What does this agent—Rodriguez—want revenge for?”

“It makes little difference when he has betrayed his loyalties.”

Madeleine frowned. It seemed too tidy that way, but it was only a hypothetical scenario. “Do you think Lynd could have saved herself?”

“What do you mean?”

“She knew Rodriguez was planning something, and she made herself a target by coming into the open. She must have known he’d kill her if he found out. But perhaps nothing else mattered besides bringing Rodriguez down with her. Their goals, what little you have told me, seem similar enough.”

“The point I was getting at, Dr Swann, is that oftentimes you will not be able to rationalise the actions of those around you until long after they are dead. Even then it's not always going to be obvious. Revenge is just as much a good motivator as it is an excuse for misconduct.”

“Is this a personal anecdote?”

“No.”

"You are… rather philosophical for a man of your occupation."

Safin's mouth turned up a fraction. This time his eyes reflected the sentiment. "I'm just making conversation."

Nothing could make him less unsettling, but this was a start. Perhaps she could tolerate another hour of this.

⁂

After a brief transfer between the trains, they were at last headed from Genève to Sion. The finality of the situation finally sunk in for Madeleine and she allowed herself to accept what was happening, begrudgingly. Safin made for decent company because unless he was engaged directly, he didn’t talk much. Once she got used to being scrutinised and returning the scrutiny, it was much like dealing with a patient. Even she was getting a little weary of putting up an agitated front every time they talked. _Merde_ , she was getting far too used to this idea.

"We have the whole car," she muttered. "Again."

Safin glanced at her but said nothing. Madeleine's thoughts briefly went to the gun in her bag.

She had a bad feeling about the attendant, who was watching them as he came up the aisle. He had done this twice now without asking if she needed anything, though he had performed the niceties on the first go-around. She could just as well chalk it up to a state of heightened awareness. On his third trip she kept him in her peripheral vision but did not address him explicitly. She had an unspoken thought, that the situation would only escalate if she were to initiate a conversation with anyone. He did not address her beyond a passing glance and a small, terse smile. He was younger than her but he walked with enough purpose to make her uneasy—it was just as likely he was itching to get to the end of his shift and go see his friends for drinks or something equally innocuous. Even after he left, her eyes kept flickering over empty rows, scanning, rescanning, finding no change.

“Dr Swann,” said Safin quietly, “is there a reason you keep looking over at the door?” Madeleine slowly tore her eyes away, a pit in her stomach that bred resentment. "Attract unwanted attention to yourself, and there’s a good chance you are going to get people killed who don't need to be. Understand?"

She understood that there was nothing more to be said about the matter and changed course: “What’s the house like?”

“An architect’s villa. It was refurbished back in 2008. You'll have your pick of rooms if that makes any difference to you.”

Madeleine nodded vaguely. "You'll be staying there as well?"

"Yes. But, I'll do my best to stay out of the way unless circumstances will not permit. Most of the time you won't even know I'm there."

"That's not exactly reassuring."

"My job is to keep you alive. That's as much reassurance as I can offer."

⁂

Several hours later, they were finally at the safehouse, in Pont-de-la-Morge. Madeleine was given a brisk tour of the premises.

Areas of note: The kitchen; wood panelling and stainless-steel. A fireplace in the living room with glass doors directly adjacent that led out to a terrace. Apparently, the lawn watered itself. And there were three bathrooms and bedrooms respectively. All-in-all, it was a lot to think about.

"Pick whichever room you like," said Safin. “There are men on-post on the grounds.”

“Will I be allowed to travel from the house?”

“If you wish. Once we can work out an itinerary, but that shouldn’t take up much of your time.”

“Of course,” said Madeleine, wishing they’d discussed this at greater length on the train ride over.

"You remember the men who escorted you?” The first nodded; the second smiled politely. “If you feel anything is amiss, speak to one of us about it."

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Madeleine, itching to get away from conversation for a while. Safin turned, and she figured that was her cue to leave. But then he spoke up again as she reached the banister:

"I can't help but notice that you didn't seem very concerned about Arnaud's death, then or now. Most people in your position would be grieving." He shrugged. "Or, perhaps you process trauma differently than I expected."

"My emotional stability is none of your concern," said Madeleine tersely.

"No. But if you push everything down it will catch up with you eventually. If that's not what you want to hear, then allow yourself some time to grieve so I don't become your therapist."

Madeleine pushed down her irritation and ascended the stairs. It was the abundance of glass doors and aesthetically pleasing windows that made her feel exposed. She was still used to her previous apartment, claustrophobic but relatively secure. Now everything was far more open. But at least she got her own room, up the stairs, to the right. Not a bad start. A fitted wardrobe, a stiff-looking bed.

A mahogany sofa—that wasn’t really her style but could be worked around. The bathroom was about as large as her previous apartment—she wanted to appreciate the freedom which which to move, but she kept coming back to that silent sense of unease.

She was being foolish. Nothing had befallen her yet. Her attention was drawn to another set of glass doors that led out to a balcony, flanked by maroon curtains—she turned on the light hanging over the western wall, drew the curtains shut, left only with the artificial light from the lamp, reflecting off the old television.

The clothes in the wardrobe were in her size. She debated whether to find this latter aspect convenient or invasive. But then, if Safin knew about the name König, it would be surprising if he wasn't privy to more information about her, down to the fine details. At least he was thorough, she thought, eying the article of clothing with a measure of distaste. The blouse was something her mother would have worn; had her father picked these out? The idea was insulting enough—even more insulting was the idea Safin’s crew had picked it out instead.

Well, she wouldn’t bring it up now. She could always buy clothes later on. And she didn’t want to look like a total handful right out of the gate. It didn’t make her feel any less humiliated, childish as it sounded.

She thought back to their last conversation about grief. In the moment, Madeleine could not reason to herself what would compel Safin to resort towards a gesture of empathy other than calculated manipulation. He was already so enigmatic that the idea seemed comical—but she wasn't angry anymore.

Perhaps she'd simply misread him before as a calculating brute without emotion. It would seem they both liked to keep people out of harm's way, though not purely for the sake of altruism. He was not to be trusted, nor tested. Solidarity was too optimistic of a word to describe the current state of diplomacy between her and Safin, and yet now here she was, still turning over the sentiment. Madeleine wondered if it was all in her head. She could not give a man like that the slip and expect to survive. If there was anything to glean from the train ride, it would be nearly impossible to try and get him to reciprocate small talk without a solid reason.

All her outs of this current situation lead to dead-ends; she'd have to wait and see, much as she disliked the idea. Waiting two weeks in the hopes he would actually reach out to her after three years of leaving her alone was a truly miserable proposition. While Madeleine had held onto her pride for as long as she could, this whole situation was clearly an exception to her rule; no time to allow for such privileges as haughtiness.

Then, what would she say? Hello, Papa. I'm still alive. Did you pick this location to remind me of your old home?

No, that wouldn't work. Even if she didn't have any positive emotions, it would be easier to approach him in the same context as any other patient—cool and detached. The only trouble was, Madeleine wasn't sure she trusted herself to do so.

⁂

The first night came. Madeleine knew she could not stay in the safehouse indefinitely. She was not about to be intimidated into staying put. "Okay," she'd said to Safin, "I'll go along with this—but I'm going to get some better clothes."

Safin looked as though he hadn't expected this to be an issue. Perhaps he had no idea what she meant, or else he was just trying to be polite; Madeleine couldn't decide what was more awkward. "All right. There are a few routes you could take. We'll discuss this in the morning if you wish."

She had to follow strict procedure but that was not so different than her time in Conakry. She was already a little paranoid as it was, so an extra pair of eyes was welcomed, even if she wouldn't admit this out loud. It was the threat of an incident more than the actual outcome that permeated the whole situation. When all was said and done, nothing outlandish happened. 

With one thing and another, the days crept by. Madeleine spent a while not thinking about Conakry. She allowed herself to fall into a life she had never allowed herself before; the illusion of normalcy, that sense of ease she'd always wanted out of places like Paris but never come to grasp. The only difference was that she had an indiscriminate tail wherever she went and parameters to adhere to, but she could almost grow to appreciate the situation, if she had the luxury of time and lack of criminal connections.

As the autumn weather approached and brought with it brisk days and colder nights, Madeleine bundled up in the evenings. She had never cared much for the winter season. All the dead things covered beneath the snow to be unearthed come spring. The coming holiday meant throngs of people. She didn't care either way about Christmas.

And then, on the fifth day, she’d woken up shivering and uneasy despite the blankets, with the phantom smell of copper and gunpowder replaced with the warmth in the room, the smell of the sheets. She got up and went to the balcony, feeling the cold beyond the glass and untouched snow—she shouldn't have opened the curtains. Madeleine had a shower and tried to process her emotions into workable material. She remembered enough about this dream to realise her mother wasn’t in it. Most of those nightmares were had in adolescence. 

She tried to erase it from her mind. It was only a dream. She dried off and dressed in clothes she had bought herself—nothing as nice as what she’d left behind in Paris, of course, but she would make do with the solidity of wool and linen—and went downstairs to have breakfast.

The prospect of making herself vulnerable in any capacity whilst in the company of heavily armed guards was not optimal. Even if they were all meant to protect her, she detested the idea of being watched at all hours or talking to them as if they were ordinary. Nothing about the situation was ordinary.

With an abundance of free time and lingering remorse it was perhaps inevitable her thoughts might stray back to the MSF. Madeleine started doing research on her own in the mornings and evenings; parsing through official sites, then news articles and anything she could scrounge up. After the first week, she concluded that there was definitely something odd with the government and the MSF. Who would want to set up an organisation like the MSF to fail?

She knew what ailed her on a level that was bone-deep. Now she had no job to distract her from her own pathetic sense of nihilism. She'd already been forced to step over many lives to get where she was; working in Conakry just reminded her of what she constantly tried to shove down. She rifled through the pantry looking for some cereal and saw an expensive-looking bottle of alcohol towards the back—liquor. She'd never noticed it before, but it winked at her. Madeleine wasn't far gone enough to fall into that trap and took the cereal, fixed herself a bowl and some coffee, sitting at the table with a minute headache.

Even her own mistakes were someone else's. Had she no agency, no choice? Was she doomed to be a perpetual liar, the reflection of a woman living a life that was built upon the foundation that had caused so much strife to others? Was it karma alone that had gotten her into this situation?

It was then she noticed Safin, hovering by the glass doors in the living-room area. “Dr Swann,” he said as way of greeting.

“Morning,” she retorted. He was the last person she wanted to ask for help. But he was the only one here she knew readily enough to have a conversation with. Sure, she could try and pose it in hypothetical terms, but she didn’t have the patience for that now, and she was certain he would also be confused if she resorted to tenuous metaphor. So she just asked him straightforwardly:

“Do you ever feel remorse, in the context of your job?”

“Remorse?”

“Knowing that no matter what you do, there will be those who suffer as a result of your actions. Take—” she cringed inwardly at how transparent it was “—Conakry, for example. The MSF were scandalised and all the other parties walked away more or less unscathed, or else traumatised. Do you expect me to ignore that?”

"Neither of us could help the events that occurred. It is not your fault that some people are simply less fortunate than you and end up dead. There are, however, people that are alive and depend on you as a psychologist. Already, you've done more to help them than you realise. Once you accept there will be casualties no matter what you do, your actions must become preventive."

It was probably the nicest thing he'd said to her since they’d met. Madeleine didn't get why now, but figured he just wanted her to be able to get back to work. If she were to cast aside her pride she might convince herself to appreciate someone else looking out for her. Madeleine used to have normal conversations with people like Arnaud and other friends, but she'd never about anything of note, always on auto-pilot. Of course, Safin wasn't a man you could try and blow off—or have a so-called normal conversation with, for that matter. On the train it had been pretty annoying to deal with, but recently Madeleine had started to appreciate him because they were so alike, cold and pragmatic, no need for bullshit. She'd never met a person that so closely held her own sense of values before and it was just as unnerving as it was bizarrely engaging. Perhaps he would only ever see her as the privileged, unwilling heir to Mr. White's legacy.

"Does the possibility of corruption within the MSF surprise you?" Safin asked, knocking her out of her thoughts.

"Not exactly." Perhaps that was what drew her to Conakry to begin with. He was still unnerving to look at, though easier on the eyes from a distance.

“Are you going to ask if it’s genetic?” he muttered.

“Sorry?”

“The scarring,” he added, terse.

Madeleine felt self-conscious. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

"None taken." His tone seemed off, like he was trying for sharpness without credence. "It was a long time ago. I like to think of it as a personal motivator." He paused. “You don’t have to pretend to be polite when you’re thinking of something else. You’re not very good at it.”

His very presence challenged her in a way most patients, most people, did not. He was not looking for an easy out or medication—the nicest way she could describe his current demeanour would be pitying. He remained cordial, but not openly genial. These conversations did not necessarily predicate a level of intimate trust, or even camaraderie. Well, at the very least they were not glowering at each other anymore. Madeleine couldn't hold much against him for doing his job, but she had been directing her anger at her father towards him, which was unfair.

“It’s going on ten AM,” she said, for lack of anything better to discuss.

“Yes.”

“You’re not usually around for such a duration of time.”

Safin studied her a moment longer. "You don't seem very upset."

"I doubt I'll be getting any straight answers out of you until my father decides he will arrive." She threw Safin a grudging look. "At the very least, you don't try to pretend to be anything other than what you are."

"And what is that?"

"We’re not so different."

"How so?"

Madeleine was placed back on the defensive: "You understand what it takes to do your job, you don't sugar-coat it. We both seem to prioritise the safety of innocents. And you've gone to greater lengths to understand my viewpoint than is necessary.”

“I see.”

“Regardless of how I feel about your employer, you've given me no real reason to distrust you."

Still, he waited.

"I am trying to say that I may have misread you initially," Madeleine admitted tersely, "are you satisfied?"

"So we have an understanding?"

"If that is what you want to call it."

"Very well, Dr. Swann."

Madeleine scoffed. "Please, just call me Madeleine. I'm not even working right now."

There was a slight pause while he considered it. "All right. Madeleine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/13/20: Still more dialogue clean-up! Refined some smaller details, etc.


	4. HOPELESS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. White has a proposition; Madeleine laments her dearth of options; Safin finally tips his hand.

So the days leading up to Mr. White's arrival ticked by without incident.

When Madeleine was not trying to blend in with an air of resignation she was confined to the safehouse. There was no point putting her face into the minds of the local populace more than necessary. She didn't have her laptop to work with, but she had her phone and managed to scrounge up some pen and paper. It was the need to understand precisely what she was up against which motivated her now.

Nothing much to speak of in Paris. But several key figures in the MSF were currently under investigation and from what she could gather, it didn't look good for them or the organisation on the whole. That stuck around the headlines, right next to some lesser story in the corner about pharmaceutical companies cooperating in tandem with the Red Cross and guiltless MSF figures to ensure there was no repeat affliction throughout the entire continent of Africa. The last she had read of Guinea was this: The Republican Guard had been fully reinstated a few days ago, and PHANTOM's presence subsequently vanished out of the public eye. Fitting enough.

Madeleine didn't see her face or name mentioned anywhere. Perhaps the incident in Paris had been covered up already, or else wasn’t noteworthy enough to be dwelt upon.

On the topic of PHANTOM: The two men who had escorted her into Sion were never around the premises of the safehouse simultaneously. And if she had reason to leave the premises, each time it was with a different associate. In the evening, through the glass doors that led out onto the balcony, she'd seen the armed figures silhouetted in the light from the terrace, blending into the shadows. She did not interact with those men and had never seen their faces. They did not talk to her or each other at length. It was the knowledge that they existed which kept her on the alert.

For the rest, the PHANTOM crew would adapt with her schedule. Whenever she had cause to leave they would follow as chaperones, never talking to her outright but always there. Upon her return to the safehouse there were men checking over the rooms and furniture as though she were some VIP. It got on her nerves but she tolerated it out of consideration for the protocol.

Still, she had to draw the line somewhere. "I don't want them in the house when I come in," she'd told Safin at the start of the second week. "Around the premises if necessary, but that's all. If they must check all the rooms, fine, I don't care, I just don't want to see it."

Safin had paused. She'd thought this was unreasonable but in the moment she was too irritated to think better. He said: "That can be arranged."

⁂

Safin would enquire occasionally about her work as a psychologist, or how she was getting along, as if he even cared for any of it beyond the simple pretence of conversation. Madeleine kept her answers rote. To his credit, he never attempted to coerce a response outside of what she gave him. But every now and again, in passing, he would hover in a room, just observing her in-action. She told herself this was just her mind searching desperately for clues where none existed and refused to acknowledge him.

But sometimes she imagined there was the flicker of some quiet curiosity in his expression, no longer trapped behind the old front of stoicism. Madeleine wasn't sure what to make of it. Safin was far too aloof to consider talking to outside of his role as security—but he would acknowledge her in passing with a curt nod, perhaps by name, and despite the apparent danger hanging over her head Madeleine soon felt as though he was becoming another part of the situation to be understood without fret or further analysis, like wallpaper.

She sounded like she was developing some kind of complex, no doubt brought on by a lack of stimulation and outside communication that her previous occupation provided. It wasn't as though she were particularly outgoing to begin with. Safin really couldn't have picked a better person to place under surveillance. He had not questioned her motives, such as when she'd bought herself new clothes. He had not isolated her beyond the necessary precautions—she'd ensured he had no reason to do so.

The scenery had changed. Her habits remained the same.

She had no way of knowing anything for sure until her father arrived. And how convenient for him that he could afford to arrive on his given date with all the time in advance to plot what he would say, while she was at the mercy of his response. She hadn't known she could summon up such a vicious level of contempt for a man she hadn't seen in years. She would have to be at her best when the time came.

⁂

At the end of the second week she got her wish. The sky outside was turning pink when the car came up the drive and she heard the men outside conversing. No one ever visited the premises. So, it was either the man she was expecting, or she was about to learn who was really after her. She thought errantly of the conversation back on the train . 

After passing the security check, Mr. White stepped over the threshold into the entrance hall. He was greyer around the temples and his cheeks were sunken. He was dressed smartly for the weather—perhaps he’d just flown in from a meeting. Still, he looked to Madeleine as though not a day had passed since they had seen each other at her graduation. He was not prone to give anything away from his expression alone, but his eyes lingered on her face in what she supposed was his attempt at empathy. "Hello, Madeleine."

"Hello."

Mr. White did not remove his coat. He glanced from his daughter to Safin without exchanging words.

“Will you be staying?” Madeleine enquired.

“I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve got to business to attend to in a few hours. But, never mind this—how are you getting on?”

“Fine.”

Mr. White’s mouth was a thin line. "Well, then, I'll get right to the point. I came here with a proposition; since you were so unceremoniously uprooted from your psychology job, I thought it would be fair to offer you a similar position in Norway. Full-time."

Madeleine hesitated. "I was told this would be temporary." She did not want to look at Safin and give herself away in front of her father. She was not sure she would be able to keep the mistrust latent.

"Think of it this way," said White. "It will be safer than running around constantly. You won't be bothered by anyone too unscrupulous once you get into the right clinics. You wouldn't even have to lay a finger on a gun if the idea displeases you. I think it would be a lot more beneficial in the long-run. All you have to do is make the proper arrangements and we'll be able to proceed from there."

So, this was the reason her father wanted anything to do with her. She'd been a real fool to expect otherwise. To think he would actually give a damn about her after all these years! It was far too optimistic.

She asked: "Who is after me?" Mr. White paused. A frown set the lines in his face into sharp relief. "I've been uprooted from my previous life. And you know, I'm not very happy about it but I can at least go along with the situation. But from the moment I arrived in Sion there's been no trouble; I've been driving myself insane waiting for something bad to happen. After two weeks I do not have a clear picture of who is after me, or what their aim is, only that I'm supposedly in danger and it's taken you this long to tell me about it yourself. So now I have to wonder, who was it that decided to start an insurrection in Conakry? In Paris?"

“Dr Swann,” said Safin tersely.

Madeleine only had eyes for her father. "I suppose the attack on my flat in Paris was a manufactured one, meant to frighten me off. Well, you've got my attention. If you didn’t like my choice in men you could have said so."

Mr. White scoffed and shook his head. "My God, I didn't even know you were still seeing him, that's, er—" he faltered in the way people do when they are trying to hide their lack of investment, and when Madeleine did not correct him he relented "—believe me, I've tried to keep out of your way, but unfortunately the situation has gotten too serious to ignore."

"And what has changed?"

“You were not the real target in Conakry,” said Mr. White, “well, not in the way you imagine. To tell you the details now will only paint a target on your back. If you were to come to Norway you would be out of the line of fire, so to speak. You never liked moving around, as I recall.”

She wanted to say: _Why not when I was in Oxford, or any other place that compromised my safety? Where were you all these years? Why do you only show up when it is convenient for your own gain?_ But what she said intstead was: “You remember that much?”

His face turned grim. “Madeleine, I don’t want to lose you the way I lost your mother.”

Madeleine could have said many terrible things. She looked into the old eyes and felt tired. "I thought I had done everything I could to live outside of your reach, and I preferred it that way. Evidently I wasn't as thorough as I would have liked to believe." The look in his eyes was sickening. "This is all you wanted to tell me?"

"No, not all. I'm glad you're settling in all right. And I've heard you were of great assistance in the MSF from Safin."

Safin bristled slightly at the mention of his name. Madeleine turned upon him in her unresolved anger and muttered, "Well, that's considerate of you."

White forced a smile. “You’ve grown out your hair. It looks lovely. And now, I have business to attend to. Whatever your decision, Madeleine, I'll need an answer by tomorrow morning."

He left soon thereafter. Madeleine stared at the door and the empty space his body had occupied shortly before, thinking. She got up.

"What do you think you're doing?" said Safin.

"I'm going after him."

"Have a seat."

Madeleine had enough of this. "He's my father, not yours. I've waited two weeks to be disappointed and I'm not going to let him get away."

"My instructions were clear. You are not to leave unaccompanied. Step outside and you will not be allowed back in."

Madeleine wasn't so eager to test him all of a sudden. But not enough to stop talking: "Well, it doesn't matter what he would say, I've probably heard before. Just ask my mother."

"I thought your mother was dead."

"Oh, I'm glad you're keeping score."

Now Safin grew very still. A flash of red came in the black eyes. Two weeks did not leave a lot of room for prolonged familiarity but Madeleine knew it was a look of utter contempt.

"You claim to despise running around like a fugitive, and yet you've given no indication you comprehend the circumstances on a level beyond a tertiary understanding of SPECTRE's operations. This situation goes beyond whatever happened in Conakry and your little family spat. If you were to accept your father's offer it would only benefit you. The details and morality involved are of no concern to you. At worst, allowing König to depart with a rejection will give him just cause to consider getting rid of you. At best, it will make your life considerably more difficult than if you had put aside your pride to begin with. If you value your life, you will understand that hearing me out is a better alternative than trying my patience. _Sit_."

His voice came as if from a dead throat. Madeleine had no more defiant lines to spew and slowly went over to the kitchen area. She took a seat at the clear glass table, feeling trapped in her dismay but unable to back down.

"You will apologise to König in the morning and accept his offer properly. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes.”

“Then think on your approach."

Madeleine thought. Then she got up and checked the larder. She eyed the bottle of liquor that had not been touched. Usually she didn't drink very much, but this entire situation was so miserable that she suddenly found the idea more tolerable than sobriety.

Safin didn't even ask what she was doing. He just watched her opening cabinets. She slammed the glass on the counter, pour herself a glass. She drank a quarter of it, shuddered. Then downed the rest and cringed slightly. But it was taking effect and she glanced up at him spitefully. "Oh, I know, you think you have got me all figured out."

Safin threw her a look as if to say: _think?_ But Madeleine missed it, staring over into a darkened corner of the room the light did not touch.

"Obviously I'm never going to have a normal life. This isn't even the first time something like this has happened. I doubt it will be the last." She looked up from the glass, squinted at him. "And you know, I've always wondered why he let me go as far ahead as I did. He must have seen something in me that I didn't. Or he just wanted to get me out of the way of his work. I never wanted anything to do with him or his sick life." A crease appeared in her brow. "Or you."

"Dr Swann."

"Really," Madeleine grumbled, "you've already called me Madeleine. There is no need to stop."

"You're intoxicated."

"Oh, don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm some sad little animal to be pitied." Madeleine regarded the bottle with a level of interest that threatened a mid-life crisis onset. "I wonder how much of this I could drink before I pass out." No answer. "Not going to stop me?"

"I'm not your keeper."

Madeleine did laugh. It was a hard, angry sound. "God, you must despise me."

"My feelings are irrelevant."

"You didn't even try to deny it. I wouldn't, either."

"I can assure you that drinking half the bottle isn't going to help."

"What would _you_ care about helping me?" Madeleine spat. "All you've done is threaten to shoot me in the head or keep me under house arrest unless I comply with your demands."

"You have done nothing that would require me to follow through on either threat. It's my job to keep you alive. Nothing more."

"Oh, that's right. You've been _assigned_ to me. Did my father select you personably?" Safin threw her an odd look. "Personably? No, that's—fuck. _Personably_."

"Madeleine—"

"Look, I'm a mess! All these years of trying to prove a point to… I don't know. I'm just going in circles around for the rest of my life. Do they pay you to listen to me too?" No answer. She chuckled miserably. "At least I don't have to kill anyone. I just ruin their lives and they crawl back every appointment. I didn't like working there, everyone wanted to be friends." She walked back to the table with a slight waver in her gait but did not sit. "It was easier in MSF, at least. At least it felt like I'd accomplished something." Then Madeleine grew pensive. "Do you ever just… grow to tolerate someone?" Safin was watching her now. "Well, it could be anyone. A friend or a loved one. What starts as co-dependence becomes something less as you grow and change. And eventually you start to grow apart from one another. There comes a day when you can't avoid the topic anymore, so you decide it must be enough, you have to let go of the past, but deep down you know this relationship means more to the other person than you. So you let them stick around, not because you care enough to get emotional about them anymore, but because it's something to occupy your time. Like keeping a routine, you know? And pretty soon those unremarkable memories are all you have left. You're trapped in that sense of obligation that doesn't seem to represent you anymore, but at the same time nothing has changed. You've only fooled yourself otherwise." The quiet swallowed her up after her little monologue. Then Madeleine shook her head. "It's strange, I don't even know you, and…."

"Hm?"

She frowned. "I don't know."

Safin confiscated the bottle—only a quarter-empty. "You'll need to be at your best in the morning."

Madeleine nodded, petulant yet unable to muster the strength needed to protest. She really wasn't as drunk as she looked. In place of her anger remained a terrible, aching void that she could speak to more intimately than most living people. Now Safin took her by the arm as though she were an unruly child.

"For God's sake," hissed Madeleine, "I'm not hopeless."

Safin didn't answer. She leant into him to see if he'd brush her aside. He didn't make note of it, just helped her up the stairs and watched her go to the room. She closed the door without looking back for him and changed, sat on the bed in silence.

"It is not your job to be the world's saviour. There are those that will die in your stead, not because you are evil but because it is inevitable. You cannot protect everyone from the evils of the world no matter how much it pains you."

She was not drunk enough to be able to ignore her own, damning flaw. It was the nature of his job to remain abstruse. After tonight she'd forget she had tried to open up to anyone besides her reflection, and inevitably go back to regarding Safin and his crew with a measured level of indignation and caution. All she had to do was sleep it off and she would be fine.

⁂

Madeleine did not manage to get much sleep.

Another shapeless nightmare awaited her. When she awoke she was afraid to look at the clock, wishing she could force her mind to settle down. She lacked the weakness to allow herself room to cry, so her grief stuck around in her stomach like a tangible weight. She was surprised she had not cracked under the influence, but then, she hadn't had a terrible amount to drink and stoicism was ingrained in her nature more resolutely than anything else.

She heard Safin moving around downstairs. Rousing, she checked the time—four AM—stumbled out of bed, put on a proper shirt and pants and crept downstairs. Safin was in the kitchen area. The lights were on. The radio was also on, playing In Flagranti's [Business Acumen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dP02OwbU1-I).

Up until now Madeleine had almost never seen him dressed in a manner that didn't cover his throat. Now she could ascertain that the scarring continued down his neck, hypothetically across his right or left shoulder. His gloves were off, revealing the hands were affected to a lesser degree. How bad the damage was in total she could not determine, but she caught him studying her and hesitated before fessing up:

"I couldn't sleep."

Safin didn't acknowledge her beyond a side-glance. It was unreasonable to try and force a conversation. A man like Safin probably didn't stay up having pep-talks with his clients anyway. Madeleine let face fall back into a resigned scowl.

"I'm sorry for carrying on the way I have,” she continued. “It wasn't just because I was drunk." She looked back at the radio, agitated. "I'm sure I have caused you enough trouble as it is."

"Not particularly. Would you like some tea?"

Madeleine accepted the offer if only to be polite.

"You know, I don't think I've ever seen you sleep," she noted.

"I sleep when I can." Madeleine studied him with a new reason for detached analysis. "You're not really going to try and criticise my lifestyle?"

"Well, of course not."

He paused. "You were angrier before."

"Am I supposed to be angry for the rest of my life? Can't I be allowed to feel anything else?" Safin threw her another quiet look. "Well, _you_ seem to have made up your mind about me," she muttered.

"It almost sounds as if you've missed our conversations."

Madeleine scoffed. "It sounds as if you are getting too comfortable around me."

Silence rescinded. The song on the radio changed to a dialogue interlude before Safin switched it off, spoke again: "I wonder, what you were doing in the middle of a place like Africa if you wanted to get away from danger?"

"I knew the risks when I took the offer. Are you going to suggest I was foolish?"

"No. Just a bleeding heart trying to make herself feel better about living in a criminal element. Afraid of genuine human connection, so you overcompensate by telling yourself you feel nothing for anyone. But it eats at you, which compels you to throw yourself headfirst into peril regardless and the cycle repeats _ad nauseum_."

Madeleine was torn between a measure of indignation and begrudging interest. "Is that how you view me, or the MSF?"

"If I were to concede either way, would it bother you?"

"I haven't got a clear idea of your reasoning, so, no, it wouldn't particularly offend me."

"The observation had more to do with criticising the MSF than you. Primarily the type of people they attract."

"You think they're not up-to-snuff?"

"They could use a review."

"In what capacity?"

Safin looked up. "They don't often get to the root of the crises they combat. They only negate them for a little time, as with medicine. They have no official means of protection from those who stand to destroy them, aside from outside sources and government cooperation, which are not always reliable. And they've depended upon the goodwill of donations for quite some time. If an overwhelming crisis were to occur and cast them in an especially unfavourable light or destroy too many of their numbers, what would happen?"

"I'm not sure what you're getting at."

"Well, it would be easy enough to take over and destroy the organisation from within. Or else rebuild it in whatever capacity one saw fit." He smiled. "One doesn't have to be part of a criminal enterprise to be pragmatic. You seem hung up on that idea."

"Are you going to lump me in with the MSF, too?"

"No, you don't act like a typical candidate. You've simply appropriated the position as a means of self-preservation."

"Well, that would make it worse than if I were genuine, no?"

Safin shrugged. "Better or worse? It's all relative to what you're trying to accomplish, Dr Swann."

"I've told you, just Madeleine. You're doing this on purpose now." Another round of silence. "I'm starting to think it was better when you didn't talk."

When you were so diligent, overly accustomed to living in a mire of furtive half-truths, you could become compromised in another way entirely. She had the terrible feeling something was amiss but could not place it for exhaustion's sake. It was easy to fault her own.

"Suffice to say," Safin concluded, "I cannot change your father's mind any more than the man he answers to. But I can prevent you from suffering the same fate as your mother."

"It's funny. I never told you how she died, is there something I'm missing?" Silence. "No, really. I'd love to know what you have to say."

"She was shot twice, in the chest and the head. The report would indicate—"

"I didn't ask for her autopsy. I'm asking what you think happened."

"I know König had a wife and that she died in January of 1996. I know also that you've expressed a distain for your father's career. You were put through several boarding schools shortly after your mother's passing. You did not adopt the name Swann until after you graduated from Oxford. It wasn't your mother's maiden name."

"I shot him in the head," Madeleine muttered, if only to divert the topic.

"Sorry?"

"The man who killed my mother. I shot him and he just ran off. I never saw him again. Ever since I was a little girl I hoped it killed him."

"Perhaps the hitman was trying to go after your father."

"What?"

"Evidently he did not anticipate you would be there to intercept, or that König would allow his late wife to answer the door in his stead. So you really saved your father's life, and the hitman was probably executed for his failure."

"Are you insinuating my father _allowed_ my mother to be killed?"

"Not necessarily."

"Why are you so interested anyway?"

"I'm not, really. You're the one who brought it up."

"Well, in any case, you can't promise me anything, you're trying to recruit me. That's why you let me get drunk."

"I'm offering you an out. It has nothing to do with your drinking. Though, with all your resistance, perhaps it would've been simpler to have let you." Madeleine stared at him in slight concern. He stared back, unflinching, then added, "But I don't think there's any need for it now."

"You're not very funny."

"It was not a joke." The water was simmering as he indicated the drawer to his right. "Take your pick. It'll be a few minutes."

Madeleine got up, noting that he turned away from the steam. She knew that he wasn’t doing this to be kind. He was only operating this way to keep her morale stabilised. With the same detached manner she selected her mug and a teabag, poured the water, watched the steam billow up. He was not to be trifled with.

The sound of the water simmering put her in a strange state between alertness and something more soporific; evidence of her own exhaustion, no doubt. She realised she hadn't moved when his arm came around her as if to turn off the burner—at the same time, she found her shoulder grazed against his chest. A lack of words invited tension.

"Madeleine." He reached over and turned off the burner. "You don’t have to stand there."

His demeanour remained sangfroid. Madeleine pulled away. She took the mug, scorching against her palms.

"If you continue to run away from this life,” said Safin, “as you have your emotions, you will inevitably wind up dead. But if you decide to embrace it, you'll be able to help people for more than the sake of satisfying your ego. And you won't have to rely on your father's good-will."

"You don't have to try and win me over," she snapped. "I've had enough of that already."

Everything about her current situation told Madeleine to despise Safin without reserve. At the same time, she found it difficult to dredge up any hatred towards him that wasn't skin-deep. He was just a man doing his job. He had no quarrel with her that she didn't choose to incite herself. If anything he'd tolerated her childishness and her family drama with a remarkable level of professionalism. The most incriminating act he'd taken thus far was to pitch the idea of living as an informant in a way that didn't seem completely despicable—and it was precisely the reason he shouldn't be trusted.

Madeleine could only bottle up her emotions for so long before she spilt over. His words were simply the catalyst. Yet again she'd been let down by her father after so many years of silence. And here she was, opening up about her family troubles to the man who probably wanted to sign her up as an informant in the first place. She no longer had the excuse of alcohol to justify such candidness.

So the idea of breaking down in front of him was almost intolerable. It was shortly thereafter that she became aware of the tightness in her chest, the sting of tears that wouldn't fall, only brimmed. The only way she could think to save face was by lowering her head, feigning interest in her steaming mug.

It was inevitable that he should notice. But he allowed her time to compose herself. Madeleine drank her tea though it was a bit scalding if only to spite the ache in her chest. She went to take her mug to the sink. And at the counter she wondered once more what a man like Safin got out of this. Either he was exceptionally patient or there was another catch to the situation she was still unaware of.

The additional time she wasted on speculation cost her. She blinked and watched a lonely teardrop fall and burst upon the counter.

"Swann?"

He was too far away at this angle to have noticed. Something else had given her away. The lapse into stilted silence, the exhaustion in her shoulders. All he'd ever done in the time she had known him was scrutinise. She heard the purposeful gait behind her and trembled.

Once at her side, he touched her arm with a naked hand. Madeleine turned sharply and betrayed herself all at once under the skylights. Before he could speak she tried wrenching her arm free but he wasn't having it. He'd seen enough to understand how pitiable she was.

It was a confusing sensation to be comforted in spite of one's emotional duress, shameful and relieving. It was such a lonely idea that she hid her face against his shoulder, half-surprised to find he exuded tangible human warmth. She expected to be dissuaded. But soon enough his other hand came around her back and steadied her.

Eventually Madeleine had composed herself. Without looking at him she could tell his thoughts were elsewhere. He held her for the purpose of containment, nothing more. He released her and she felt the human warmth recede with him, keeping her at arms' distance. 

"You're grieving," he said gently. "It's understandable, given what you've experienced, and nothing to be ashamed of. Allow yourself this much while you can, then try and sleep."

She departed, up the stairs, down the hall, went into her room. The curtains were drawn and the door to the bathroom was ajar as she'd left it. In the bathroom the light was still on. She sat on the seat of the toilet with her heart in her throat and pushed her face into her palms and trembled.

Right now she had more of a connection to her faux-life in Paris than the one she had thrown aside back many years ago in Altaussee. And here she was spilling her guts to the security. She wasn't even drunk! It wasn't a very good look no matter how you spliced it.

Undoubtedly he would think he had her sorted out. Or perhaps she was not the only one feeling jaded and underappreciated? No, she was not listening to that little voice in her head.

So she freshened up, returned into her bedroom, killed the lights, and took a seat in the chair opposite the door. Her mind was still buzzing. Now there was only the sliver of light beneath the door and the sound of her drumming heartbeat. It was several minutes before she heard the gait coming up the stairs and down her side of the hall. A soft shadow appeared in the line of light below the door, then resolved into two columns of dark.

"Madeleine." She got up and opened the door to meet the dark eyes with a strange, charged silence that bred complicity. "Are you all right?"

The look he gave her was very strange and a little like remorse. Madeleine was not yet familiar enough with him to identify this for a fact. But she refused to allow herself to be pitied. She put an arm's length of distance between herself and Safin and kept her voice imperious. "Yes. I'm fine now." Then she felt a little guilty. "I shouldn't keep you."

"It's no trouble." Safin was watching her very carefully. "I thought you would be asleep."

"Yes."

His hand came to rest with casual resolve upon the doorjamb. "If there is a problem I'll be down the hall." There was a thank-you stuck in her throat and now it fought to surface behind her eyes. But he had seen it, and it was enough. His hand on the jamb relaxed, then relinquished its grip. "Good evening, Dr. Swann."

She closed the door and listened to the sound of his footsteps retreating with her hand on the knob. Residual warmth stirred within her breast to take place the familiar void. It was a little like the buzz of intoxication, yet so foreign to her that she thought it might as well have drifted, perhaps in her state of insomnia, tangetially, into someone else's lived experience—but she was awake. It would have incensed her, normally, to come so close to revealing her feelings in such a casual, vulnerable way. But all she felt was warmth.

In the dark, Madeleine curled into herself on the bed and waited to fall asleep so she might forget the fleeting pleasure of being held. The warmth had faded and in its place was a terrible ache. But this was familiar, the esurient flaw of the lonesome.

She laid there for a long time. She clung to the false hope because it was all she had left. She watched the outline of the light beyond the curtains wane. When the time on her phone read 06:00 she decided she might as well try and make the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: 12/13/20: Dialogue w/Madeleine and White + ending revised so it's less rushed.


	5. SMILE! NO ONE CARES HOW YOU FEEL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With nothing to lose, Safin endeavors to give Madeleine a fairer shake; Madeleine's childhood comes back to haunt her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*Kill Bill siren noises*_

On the other side of the house Safin was also awake. The time now was 06:00. There was a call waiting for him in exactly five minutes. Since there was some time to kill, Safin parsed over what he knew.

According to the birth certificate Madeleine Swann had been born 1986, November 1st: Madeleine Blanchard. She'd changed names twice; Droit in 2001, shortly before her enrolment into boarding school, then Swann after graduating from Oxford with a doctorate in 2010—she had coincidentally also moved to Paris that same year. She joined with MSF in March of 2013. She never seemed to stay in one place for more than a few years at a time. Aside from the incident in 1996, there was little else about her that seemed out of the ordinary at a glance.

In person Swann came off as cold, clinical, well-versed in her occupation. At once she seemed resentful and resigned to her situation. She didn't drink much and didn't smoke. He'd only ever seen her laugh when she was drunk. She was nearly twenty-seven, unmarried. Infallible: at least, in theory.

And yet she had chosen to confide in a man she'd known for all of two weeks over her own father. Safin knew her flaw, for it was the same as any person who keeps his emotions latent and is summarily poisoned from the inside. Alcohol and lack of sleep only amplified it. Just a few minutes ago she had clung to him as though in fear of her misery rather than seeking to be assuaged outright. No doubt she yearned for the very intimacy she tried to avoid even if it was on a subconscious level.

Which brought him back to the phone call—he had less than a minute. He ran through what he was to say in his mind without delay. When the moment came he picked up and began, "No 12 speaking."

_"No 1 listening."_

The soft, flat intonation could only belong to one man. Safin knew this voice better than his own father's. He said, "Successful. Six fifteen. Next phase seven thirty. Continuing."

A pause.

_"Thank you."_

The call ended.

Now Safin's thoughts turned back to planning the method of indictment. Swann hadn't yet proven herself problematic in the sense that she was going to double-cross him. Her flaws were easy enough to assess despite her cold, clinical manner. Her background gave her an advantage in that she knew all about keeping her head down and her eyes sharp—she would make for an excellent informant in the right environment. But right now all of this was potential. First she had to make the transition, and she had a lot of work cut out for her. The cynical side of him knew it would be simpler to put a bullet in her head before she started asking too many questions about the new job—it was unlikely she would curb that habit without persuasion. Killing her before she'd even had a chance to prove him wrong seemed imprudent. No 8 wouldn't take kindly to the news about his investment being cut short, and No 1 even less so.

Safin had been putting together an itinerary for the last two weeks with his own team. The departure from the safehouse would start as planned. In the most bare-bones sense, they'd be driven to the station in Geneve and take a train to the airport, then a flight to Oslo, then another train—all told, the trip was around seven hours in the best conditions. There were a few different routes that could be taken—without any delays they should arrive around 14:45. Permitting room for human error, it was more plausible they would arrive sometime around 15:30. Safin had no qualms about being cautious, but he did not want to push his luck. And now he had to sell the plan to Madeleine. With this in mind he circled around and back up to her room. He knocked twice before she went to the door and opened it.

Swann had thrown a clean undershirt on as well as darker pants and her hair hung loose around her face. "I talked to him. White."

"And?"

"We reached an agreement." Her tone was impassive, her shoulders slumped forward. The shirt was thin enough to reveal the outline of her brassiere. It was something he noticed without the need for emotional investment. Safin walked over to the end-table. On it he placed a box of 9mm Speer Gold Dot JHP ammunition. Her eyes widened a fraction. He said, "So far you have had no complications. Given the situation, I cannot guarantee there won't be any disruptions going forward. If something is to happen, you will have to be proactive."

"I'm not sure I'm the person you should entrust your life to."

"It's not my life, but your own you should worry about. Your license is still verified." He paused. "If you are feeling unconfident in your ability to defend yourself now is the time to speak up. There's no shame in admitting it." Madeleine looked contemptuous. All right, maybe he was being too easy on her. "Otherwise, it shouldn't be an issue for you."

His tone made clear there would be no alternative. Swann withdrew the gun from her bag with a pronounced scowl. She ejected the magazine, loaded the bullets into the chamber, pulled back the slide until it clicked, then glanced at him sceptically. "Is that all?"

"Nearly." He afforded her a curt smile. "When you arrive in Oslo you will be provided an apartment, but you will be left to your own devices otherwise. You will be operating out of a private clinic. It won't be much different than the work you were doing in Paris. But there will be a few clients among your pool that are set apart from the rest."

"How so?"

"You'll understand once you meet them. It's not something as obvious as their physical appearance or their stated reason for seeing you. It will be in their backgrounds, and you'll be given specific instructions as to what you should look for. Twice each month, you'll report the status of these clients to a man named Franz Oberhauser. Think of him as your primary boss." He paused. "There is something you should know about him. He can be amicable when he wishes. At times he may want to steer conversation away from the topic of your work. Do not engage him. Don't give him any personal information either, he'll already know what he needs about your background. If you betray anything else he will use it against you."

"You seem familiar with how he operates."

"Because I work for him."

Madeleine seemed to realise the implication. She shrank back slightly. "Oh, God."

"I'm only telling you this so you'll know what to expect. There shouldn't be an issue as long as you are polite. He will leave you alone once he understands you're just here to do a job."

"And what is my job?"

"You're a psychologist, Dr. Swann. Nothing more."

Madeleine didn't look very reassured. Safin debated if he should tip his hand any further. But there was nothing else for it; if he wanted her to go along with this he had to give her a better motive.

"You wish to know why you are being uprooted again, don't you? I'll try to be brief: As your father implied, you saw some business you ought not to have in Conakry. It can't be helped now, but it won't do any good if you keep digging into it. You are not to ask me or anyone else you meet in Oslo about what happened there, going forward. If Oberhauser brings it up, you will be better off if you deny knowing anything—for the sake of your well-being as well as your father's."

"Anything else I should know?"

Safin drew a quiet breath, deliberating. When he released it the air was colder. "Yes. 1996, January 4th. You would have been nine years old, correct?"

"I expect so."

"Why were you home that day?"

"I was on holiday."

"And who taught you how to shoot?"

"My father. I don't see what this has to do with anything."

"Would you say you were close to your mother?"

"Who's the psychologist, you or me?" Safin held her gaze. Madeleine was the first to turn away. "I wasn't—look, what does it matter, she's been dead seventeen years. I've had enough time to grieve."

"Your father was home that day. Did he take time off work frequently?"

The look in Madeleine's eyes was slowly dawning. "No, he—is there a point to this?"

"If it was unusual for your father to be home with you and your mother, there must have been a good reason he stayed." He paused. "The gun you used to defend yourself, did your father entrust it to you?"

"No one gave it to me, I—I took it from the cabinet under the sink."

"Why did you take it?"

"I felt safer."

"You thought you might be in danger."

"I wasn't—it was her."

"Your mother?" Madeleine ceded, her mouth a thin line. "Why couldn't she use the gun? You were nine years old."

"She—she didn't want to know about it. She would have been upset to see me with the gun."

"Why?"

"I was nine, for God's sake. I didn't know how to ask her about her failing marriage or my father's job! It was normal to me, I just—I don't know what I was thinking."

"Was she compromised in a way that would prevent her from using a gun?"

"Look, you have all the information you need to figure me out."

"I'm asking about your mother. She was ill, was she not?" Madeleine did not deny it. She was looking away from him towards the door. "This would give your father a reason to take time away from work. Perhaps she was sick enough that she would not be able to look after you if things continued. Is it possible you thought you were going to have to protect her?" Madeleine shook her head. "Then why did you take the Beretta?"

"I don't need to be psychoanalysed—what was I supposed to do, just stand there and watch her die?"

"You should never have come to the door to begin with."

A crease in her brow. "Well, I don't have to hear another word of this either." She stood up and made a break for the door; Safin was on her heels and he closed in, trapping her against the wall without having to lay a hand on her. "What the hell is this?" Despite the front of anger he could see a flicker of panic in the blue eyes.

"The story doesn't end there."

Madeleine went over to the closet. She threw on her coat, turned. "My mother opened the door, and he—" she seemed to be wrenching the words from someplace inside herself "—the assassin, he did it quickly. There was an awful lot of blood, but it was quiet. He must have had a suppressor. And she didn't scream. She couldn't make any noise, she was just—laying there." She drew breath. "And he didn't look at her at all, he was looking at me. Maybe he wasn't expecting a child to be there."

"And then what?"

Madeleine shot him a particularly venomous look. Safin did not cede. "And then, I shot him in the face. I wanted to kill him. But it broke—the mask, he was wearing a mask—and he was only hurt. He must have been startled. He ran off."

"Just like that?"

"No, it was—I think he must have heard my father coming down the hall. It was a loud shot. And then my father came over, and he sent me to my room." She shook herself. "Whoever it was that killed mother must be dead now, or very old. I suppose he was aiming for my father. I made sure he failed."

"He isn't dead."

Safin waited. Now Madeleine went very still.

"What?"

"Your father was never the target. Did he tell you what happened afterwards?"

"He told me not to" —Madeleine blinked once, then rapidly— "I—I don't know. It wasn't for me to know. I never wanted anything to do with him or his life, anyways."

"You never asked yourself why I knew what I did about your mother or the incident. You just accepted it because I told you I was in the business of security. It's not implausible—but on that day, you happened to be home, and you happened to take the Beretta with you. Did you ever wonder why your father only came over when he heard the second gunshot?"

"Stop it."

"It was a two-storey cabin. You might have seen the assassin coming up the dock and had just enough time to prepare. Do you remember his cover? It was a deliveryman."

"I said _stop_ , I don't want to hear another—"

"—what do you think I'm going to say?"

She was trembling, on the verge of some horrific realisation and her heart would not let her solidify the connection. She shook herself violently. "You can't be serious—who the hell was the target?" she snapped. "If it wasn't my father then who?" Safin waited. He had nothing to lose but time. Her face contorted. "For God's sake stop _looking_ at me like that!"

"The target was always your mother. Did you really think it was yourself?"

All the rage in her features seemed to stutter. She whispered something to herself in French. She wrapped her arms around herself. "No. No, this is just—just fucking ludicrous! Why would I believe you when…" she seemed to recognise his silence for what it signified; the colour drained from her face and she held his gaze. She put her hand to her mouth. "Oh my God." It was spoken so quietly Safin almost missed the words.

"I was seventeen when my contact gave me the assignment." His tone was flat and edgeless. "I didn't expect you would shoot me." The crease in her brow was far more pronounced. She took her hand away from her mouth and her teeth were clenched. There were tears in her eyes that would not fall. "I wasn't going to tell you any of this," he said. "But if I hadn't, it's inevitable that Oberhauser would get to you. He searches for the worst in everyone around him. If you were to ask him what had happened, he would spin his own narrative and send you down a path you could not recover from. Your father, and anyone else you've been in-contact with, would be in danger. It's better if you know the truth and decide for yourself." Safin held her eyes. Her lower lip trembled and she bit it hard. She cast her eyes down in vain. He said, "Anyway, it's unlikely you will go the way of your mother. You're in good health and not causing trouble for anybody."

As the seconds went along he watched the fear in her gradually mutate into a veneer of virulent anger, the flash of her teeth. "If you're really going to justify—I suppose that's why you asked all those questions about my childhood?"

"It was a job. Nothing personal."

She laughed, short, sharp. "And everything _else_ we've discussed, that wasn't personal either?"

"That's correct."

The emotion dissipated into terrified incredulity for a second and then resolved back into wounded indifference. "Christ, it's just my luck, isn't it?"

"You know how to handle yourself. You'll be fine."

Madeleine scoffed. "Fine? What makes you think I won't shoot you again?"

"Go ahead. Then you'll have to take your chances against the men outside. I can assure you they will not hesitate to eliminate a threat." Madeleine had the look of a small, kicked animal; Safin figured he'd made his point. "You have an hour. Get yourself in order."

⁂

The sky was turning steadily to halcyon and the impassive mountain range lay ahead on the horizon. They worked back from roads to a more industrial setting. The colder climate suited him well. Madeleine kept herself bundled in a dark coat that did not suit her finer features. It was as if she were getting ready for a funeral. She was quiet the whole way. Perhaps the situation had finally begun to sink in and she was simply trying to come to grips with everything.

At seventeen he could not have realised the effect his actions might have on Swann at such a young age. But at that time, Safin wouldn't have thought they would ever cross paths again, and in the current circumstances there was little he could do to deaden the emotional blow. This wasn't a very good look in terms of morality, but Safin did not want her to trust him completely. Drawing her in any closer would see that she was put right into No 1's hands and as such would defeat the point of her becoming an informant. If he had to crush her spirits temporarily to keep her aware of what she stood to lose, so be it. She would understand his reasoning eventually, even if she hated him for it. Well, all the better. This would be the end of one relationship and the start of another.

Now it was about 7:00. They were waiting for the train. The crowd was not a throng but it would be easy enough to blend in if you didn't want to be noticed. For all intents and purposes he and Swann might as well be business associates—co-workers, even. Behind them, all glass windows. Two exits. Swann's eyes kept flitting around. She didn't even seem to realise she was doing this until he leant over and muttered: "Relax."

She froze, then scowled, turning around and peering through the glass behind her.

He scanned the crowd. Nothing stood out as particularly dangerous but he did not want to leave anything to chance. Swann was not a celebrity, true, but she was not ordinary cargo. A lot was riding on her getting to Oslo in one piece and the risk he'd just taken by opening up to her could not be rescinded. Safin wasn't eager to bring his own reputation into dispute—he did not wish to be compared to the travesty that had been No 11's implosion last year. But there was just as much of a chance both he and Swann would come out of this unscathed—he had not made it personal, and he had not harmed her physically. No 1 was not exactly a pedant when it came to the subject of morality. Right now he had to keep his mind on the given mission. He would know his fate when it came to it.

He noticed Madeleine was looking concentratedly at something over his shoulder.

"There's a man. Over by the doors, do you see him? He hasn't taken his eyes off us since we arrived."

Safin took note of his build—he was of normal height but stockier than your average businessman. He was dressed well but not ostentatiously so. Caucasian. Dark hair. In his mind he identified this man on-sight as Gavin Morris, a counterintelligence officer from INTERPOL who'd previously collaborated with MI6 to track down the hard-drive containing the identities of several dozen NATO agents after a brief interception by Marco Sciarra (No 5)—and No 11, while he was alive. But he did not want to draw attention to these connections in front of Madeleine.

"I see him. Keep your eyes ahead," he muttered, "or you'll give yourself away."

Madeleine glowered at the train. Most likely she was just nervous. He supposed that was to be expected, but it didn't make his job much easier. Someone had to keep in-check and it usually ended up being his responsibility.

⁂

In the grand scheme of things, the death of White's wife was unremarkable. There had been a funeral held two months later. White went back to work, touching base with Le Chiffre in 1998 and Greene in 2004. Unfortunately for White and the rest of SPECTRE, Le Chiffre was no better with money than vice, and with his business dealings he was no different than the whores he invested in—he was also the last to know about it after his untimely demise, back in 2006.

It was not only the loss of Le Chiffre, but the collateral left in the wake of his death that heralded the beginning of persistent trouble between SPECTRE and MI6 that had continued on-and-off. This finally came to a head last year with the death of their head of SIS, Olivia Mansfield. But even with MI6 disgraced it had cost SPECTRE several of their finest operatives. It was likely that MI6 would want to follow through after the catastrophe that had come out of last year; Raoul Silva's blood-soaked quest for vengeance against his surrogate mother figure had left both organisations scrambling for some security, let alone dignity.

Truthfully, Safin hadn't known Silva that well. True, he had broken him out of containment in Hong Kong back in 1997, but apart from this one instance and a few conversations scattered few the years there was little to be said. They had worked alongside each other back in 2010. Silva was hard to forget. You could spend years alongside a man and learn the inner workings of his personality, his flaws, and temper your approach to match it—only to realise that was just what he took with him to work and he had a totally different method of operation outside. But with Silva he was almost deceptively honest. Vengeance was his tenet from the first day they had made contact and it had remained so throughout Silva's time with SPECTRE as No 11, seemingly always in the back of his mind.

To Safin it was an understandable way to carry oneself, if ultimately detrimental. What good came of chasing the dream of revenge to its logical conclusion? To target one person was easy. To use that anger for the sake of bettering the world was a more difficult task that required a lot of discipline and self-reflection. But this grudge had rotted him in a way the cyanide pill could never hope to do. Nothing would come of a senseless chase but death and wasted potential. If Silva had wanted revenge he need only wait for a programme like the up-and-coming Nine Eyes and use his prowess to turn M's fate into an assured trap from his computer, discrediting her organisation and dragging her agents unceremoniously into the light. It was how he'd started, and Safin reflected that if he had only stuck to the shadows SPECTRE wouldn't be in trouble. Silva could have easily exposed this head of MI6 for the fraudulent leader she really was, and kept his life, if he had not made it a goal to come down personally and look her in the eyes one last time.

 _She's not so powerful if you take away her desk,_ Safin had said. _Just another bureaucrat._

He remembered Silva had been disgruntled with him and at the time he'd not understood why. In hindsight it was easy enough to figure that, for Silva, a clean, impersonal hit would take all the joy out of the venture. If he couldn't look Mansfield in the eyes then what was the point?

So, after fixing the election in Uganda during 2011 and garnering No 1's favour, Silva had turned his sights to the topic of vengeance and done away with all that hard-earned good will. One year later, the surviving members of SPECTRE were sitting around the table a few weeks before Christmas. No 1 surveyed them all with a look of polite but unmistakable disapproval.

"It is a shame," he said, "that we have lost one of our most talented men today. But it is not worth the trouble of grief. His death only serves to bolster the efforts of those who stand in our way. You see, No 11 lost sight of his purpose here. He made his goal a personal vendetta and so he paid with his life. In doing so he dragged SPECTRE's name through the mud with him. This is absolutely unacceptable. Further deviations from the stated goal will be dealt with accordingly." All around the table was silence, the heavy weighted anticipation of his decree. Then No 1 smiled thinly. "At the same time, we must take full advantage of this development. MI6's standing has been brought into question. We have already infiltrated their numbers. Now we will see to it that they devour each other. It is only right.")

⁂

By the time they had boarded the train it was 08:30. It was only a two-hour ride from here to Genève-Aéroport, but anything could happen. Now that Madeleine had been let in on the situation, and as soon as she was put on the job, Swann was liable to become a target by proxy—and not just by enemies of SPECTRE.

The man Madeleine had spotted took up a seat in the aisle a row behind him. Madeleine sat facing away from Morris and Safin took a seat directly adjacent to her. The train would depart in ten minutes. She had her handbag by her feet.

She tilted her head in the direction of the window but did not allow herself to rest against it. Her attention was focused on nothing in particular. Safin could feel the exhaustion in her eyes as though it were something tangible. She was too tired even to reach into herself and reignite her childhood anger. The sunlight on her face brought out the misery she could not verbalise. If he were less cold he might have found reason to pity her.

The movement of the train jarred her from half-consciousness. She glanced over at him stealthily and then averted her eyes.

"Madeleine," he said softly.

She did not look up as she muttered, "I've been having some odd dreams lately. Some of them, reminiscient of those I used to have when I was a little girl. There's this one that used to keep reoccurring. When I was about… eleven, it used to be pretty bad. It was back in my father's cabin on the day my mother died.

"My mother was already dead, and somehow I knew I was next. I didn't have anything to protect myself so I would try to run for the Beretta in the cabinet under the sink. Then something would go wrong. The gun would be missing, or it was empty, or I would be too slow and… and he'd shoot me. If I tried to run out the door he'd just let me run out over the lake. I would fall through and drown under the ice. But I always woke up before I drowned so it was better than being shot.

"The funny thing was that she was always right there on the floor. There was an awful lot of blood. Eventually I stopped noticing she was there because she was so quiet. That was strange to me. In real life she was trying to make a sound but she kept choking on her blood. So I used to think she must have already died." Madeleine blinked slowly as if realising something. Then she turned her head against the window. In a small voice she asked: "Have you ever watched yourself bleed to death, Safin?"

He did not answer. He waited as she fought a losing battle for composure, took a shuddering breath and went on,

"It's funny, I knew what it felt like to lose blood. Whenever he shot me the blood got all over my hands and the counter. I couldn't stop it, so I would panic and make it all worse. And the assassin would just stand there and wait for me to die." A familiar crease in her brow. "He never said anything to me in the dreams. I used to wonder why. But now all I have are memories. I can't apologise to a grave. And I can't tell my father about it because really, we both know I'm the reason she's dead." A half-hearted sneer played unconvincingly across her mouth. "I don't know why I bother telling you anything when you just sit there."

"Madeleine," he said brusquely, "enough."

She blenched as if she had been been slapped then went very quiet. Small and pathetic in the train compartment, she looked out the window again.

If he were being honest with himself Safin didn't expect her to be fine right away. He wasn't exactly an expert in comforting anyone, but after they'd had a few conversations and he'd given her the situation, this took care of some boundaries; he wouldn't have to just sit there and wait for her to compose herself. He said, "You were nine years old and up against a trained hitman. You're lucky to be alive."

She wasn't fighting this. It was a good sign, he told himself, not to be taken for granted. "I haven't thought about her in years," she mumbled as though she hadn't heard him.

Safin averted his eyes, glad for the physical distance. Then he caught himself. Why should he care how she felt as long as she reached her destination in one piece?

Madeleine laughed softly. "My God. You'd think I would learn not to talk to you. I mean, I don't know one thing about you," she muttered.

"It's not your concern to know about me."

"Well, I don't want to be lumped in with your people either."

"You could have picked another occupation." Madeleine scowled. She was coming back to her old self. "Just try and get some rest while you're able."

She tried to look suspicious but came off slightly petulant. "You're not going to kill me in my sleep?"

"No."

She lowered her eyes again. "No one has ever told me what happened to _maman_ ," she whispered, "until today."

Safin had no idea what to say to this. He just waited until she seemed to lose interest and dozed off. He let the minutes pass. The attendant offered sympathies.

He had Swann in his peripherals. Her expression, usually terse and pointed, was rendered emotionless by sleep. Observing her in an unguarded state held its own private curiosity, but Safin had no reason to linger on this.

Morris said nothing to anyone but stared ahead. Safin did the same.

Oslo seemed far away but Sion seemed further still. The breach of that faux sense of security had obviously done a number on Swann but she was, at the very least, taking the situation much better than he'd anticipated. Truth be told, this escort-job was the most irregular activity he had been put up to in a few years and that alone made him uneasy.

It was not in a man of Safin's nature to leave questions unanswered without reason. All he could do now was keep her alive and unharmed, if he wanted to stay in No 8's good graces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! I did make a slight miscalculation—Madeleine would be nine years old when her mom was shot, since her birthday is in November; she'd also be twenty six according to the current time-line.
> 
> EDIT 12/13/20: Have revised the continuity to fall in line with the other chapters.


	6. LIKE HOME

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old associate touches base with Safin and Madeleine; in Oslo, Safin and Dr Swann go their separate ways; Mr. White offers his daughter some much-needed closure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took a bit longer than I would have liked, with all the research. But finally, it's time for the Oslo Arc!

One hour left before they would reach the airport. In this time Morris had not moved from his position. Dr Swann was resting lightly, but without disturbance; that was all-the-better. She wouldn't be able to keep her wits about her if she wore herself down prematurely.

When No 8 first gave Safin the assignment to collect his most valuable investment, this was hardly what he had been imagining. While it was true Swann had seen some things she ought not to have in Guinea, it was unclear to him if she realised the breadth of the situation beyond what she'd already pieced together on her own time. She had connections on account of nepotism but seemed distinctly displeased to be reminded of this. She was confident enough when handling the gun—well, perhaps that was to be expected.

Twice now Safin had spared her life, a blackly serendipitous notion that was quickly becoming a point of internal contention. He had brought that trouble upon himself from the moment he decided to engage with her directly. He could not let her think his actions were anything other than premeditated. This impromptu escort mission to Sion had put a wrench into his formal assignment for SPECTRE; No 1 did not allow disruption in the work of his operatives unless there was good reason. In the case of Donka Hospital it had been part of the operation and thus understandable. But the second incident in France was not, in Safin's view, pressing enough to necessitate direct involvement, aside from getting Swann’s attention with an arranged hit on her former colleague. No 8's reasoning to bring his daughter to Oslo was not unfounded. Safin had been sincere when he stated she would be able to handle herself but that was as much levity as he was willing to offer. He was a number and she was a letter. While this did not diminish her importance to the organisation of SPECTRE, it distinguished their roles of operative and informant-to-be quite clearly. Once she was established at the clinic she would receive a new security detail, and they would each continue their work without delay. Perhaps he ought to have explained this in more depth, but he figured additional information would be better received while she was lucid. There would be time enough to discuss it whilst on the flight or at the apartment proper. He ran through the itinerary in his head one more time. Roughly five hours left to their destination.

And as for Morris’s involvement, he had touched base with Safin and his detail over in Guinea. This was back in the first week of February before the MSF could start meddling too deeply. While they had ostensibly been working towards the same goal of information control, this factor did not make them aligned to the same team, nor did it strictly make them enemies. No 12 was there to incite—and solve—the given political insurrection. Gavin's job was to work things out with the bureaucratic element and souse out potential causes for the insurgency. They remained aware of each other and kept averse for the sake of furthering their respective goals regardless of any moral imperative. Once the mission was over they could debrief—but what one chose to betray was just as important as what went unspoken. The presence of INTERPOL now did not necessarily imply trouble. Besides, it was likely Madeleine wasn't the real target here. Despite her connections she had no real skin in the game, at least not yet.

Morris broke the tension first. "Hello, Lucifer.” Safin held his eyes but said nothing. “I see you’re already back on a commute.”

"Only to Norway," said Safin. Madeleine stirred.

“Ah, I didn’t mean to disturb your friend—Madeleine, is it?”

“Dr Swann has nothing to do with this.”

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” said Swann, glancing at Safin once as though condescended. She was sitting upright, her tone alert. Safin wished she would take the hint once offered. Morris locked eyes with her instead and his tone relaxed a fraction.

“Yes, of course—my name’s Gavin Morris. I’m with INTERPOL. As of this moment we’re working along with the EU on the matter of the recent state of affairs in West Africa, starting back in late February of this year. Both you and Lucifer here were involved in the operation at Donka Hospital up until the end of July. Your cooperation in this matter would be appreciated.”

Madeleine glanced back at Safin, who did not betray what he thought beyond a curt side-glance. Her expression was one of morbid resignation but lacked the initial distrust that she’d carried with her onto the train. To Morris she said: “I’m not sure I will be able to provide the information you need. I was only there for a few months and I didn’t see much activity outside of the hospital.”

“Anything you know is a start. But I would like to speak with you two separately if that’s all right.”

Safin volunteered himself: “Morris,” and afforded a passing glance towards Madeleine meant to reassure. She did not seem troubled as he and Morris went to the next car over.

⁂

Back in 2012 several of the NATO agents had expressed interest in defection to SPECTRE, but were subsequently discouraged when No 11 went rogue and security became a sticking point. No 5’s success nevertheless garnered him insurance for the time being and set an example for everyone else. For the next eight months it had been up to operatives such as No 5 and No 12 to ensure SPECTRE was back to its old tricks on the ground-level—conducting acts of espionage on a smaller-scale that could easily be misconstrued by the mainstream media which was itself already bought and paid for on a certain level. There were those like No 8 which secured deals with a lot of hedge-fund types and looked for weak links and old favours to be owed.

The pharmaceutical/vaccination scheme that had kicked off in West Africa was just the latest example. The threat of anarchism on part of the local insurgents was a distraction—it didn't matter what these people believed in as long as they could divide attention from what was going on behind-the-scenes, existing as a mob full of righteous, but ultimately ineffective, anger. The political and military climate was brutal and commonplace enough to most looking in from the outside and would discourage a thorough investigation. Most of what had been promised to the people was for clout but there was little they could do about it. There would always be some concerned element, usually non-native to the country in-question, but they could only do so much from across the ocean. Without a tightly organised movement the most that could be offered effectively were condolences. Whatever funds were scrounged up and donated could easily be rerouted and no one involved ever bothered to dig in deeper. Empathy without a greater cause was dangerous on its own but a useful tool for the purposes of SPECTRE—well, that was the real crux of it.

Safin had his own reservations but kept this separate from the job at-hand—otherwise he’d just cripple his ability to operate. There was only so much one could do in the middle of a corrupt authority, without power and resources necessary to enact change you were just another figurehead. Anyway, the idea of being compromised in any manner displeased him.

“They've shut down the harbour for about a month now,” said Morris quietly. “It's a hell of a mess you cleaned up, and we’re grateful for your cooperation in the matter. But it isn’t over. The WHO is doing everything it can trying to convince the rest of the world that this situation is under control. They are saying this virus has been contained—but according to our sources it supposedly originated from the aluminium mines, and there’s no cure or sign of a mutation.”

“Then, why shut down the harbour? Most of the patients that passed through were mineworkers or else participated in infrastructure. Since the pandemic did not start in Conakry, and whatever the MSF had been injecting the afflicted with proved ineffective, perhaps this is the result of chemical warfare.”

“Yes, that’s been on my mind as well The situation is a good opportunity for those with interest in controlling the mines to make a claim. All the workers and their families were promised compensation, but they're wising up pretty quick—but, unfortunately there’s not much that can be done without the possibility of military intervention. The government doesn’t seem so keen on accepting outside help because those that volunteered are not prepared to deal with the rioters.” Safin smiled to himself, an almost imperceptible expression of contempt. “And it's not the first time this has happened either, so it’s difficult to get enough interest behind it. You remember that election cycle in Uganda, back in 2011?”

“Public interest isn’t going to affect much on its own,” said Safin coolly. “There’s only so much that can be done if tensions are high—at this point, it’s probably more optimal to let the insurgents burn themselves out and then crush them accordingly. Set an example for anyone who thinks they’re in the right. Once you have a group that is radicalised and desperate enough, you want to get across the idea that the only thing they’ll respond to is the threat of violence. But, that’s what the rest of the world keeps us around for, isn't it?”

Morris smiled. The eyes were tired and void of sentiment. There was an understanding between the two men that went unspoken, despite the disparity in objectives. Safin redirected:

“Is that all you wished to ask me?”

“Well, Lucifer, I must confess I was hoping we’d be able to elect your assistance in this. But it will not bode well for the state of diplomacy to keep meddling in their affairs.”

“You wanted to see Dr Swann,” said Safin.

“Ah, yes. It’ll only be a few minutes.”

Safin went back to the old car. Madeleine glanced up and said: “So, it’s my turn?”

“Something like that. It won’t be long.”

She nodded but seemed lost in thought. She did not ask what he had discussed with Morris and when she came back to her seat ten minutes later, Safin offered her the same courtesy.

⁂

Madeleine caught some sleep on the flight over. They touched down in Oslo and from there they took another train—only twenty minutes to their destination at the station. From there it was just a matter of navigation.

The apartment in question was located in Vaterland. Her location was pretty ideal. Only twelve minutes away from her workplace, an office at Diakonhjemmet Hospital. More generally she was north of the tracks at Oslo Central Station, between Jernbanetorget—the main transit—Storgata—the city centre—and the Akerselva river. There was also the Oslo Central Station and Oslo Bus Terminal, a few shopping centres, the Radisson Blu Plaza Hotel, the concert arena Oslo Spektrum and Postgirobygget—which served, among other things, as the home office for the Norwegian postal service, Posten Norge.

Her lodgings had been settled beforehand with with forenom, the company running the aparthotel complex she was staying at. Her address was Lakkegata 4 Oslo 0186. Madeleine was expected to pay rent on a monthly basis. Now the apartment itself was compact to the point of slight claustrophobia, but it possessed all the necessary faculties and had no fripperies. There was a red-brick patio in case she felt too boxed-in and wanted to feel fresh air on her face. It was a thought both pleasing and lonesome.

Safin had accompanied her this far but he remained by the door to the hall. Well, she called him Safin but now she knew his name was—

“Lucifer.”

“Yes?”

Madeleine paused and considered, not for the first time, if he _looked_ like a Lucifer. It wasn’t a very common name but she was sure whatever she said would be something he’d heard before. She didn’t see a reason to stop referring to him as Safin but at the same time he didn’t seem bothered. “Is it an alias?”

Safin didn’t answer immediately. He looked a little tired, if anything. She hadn’t really expected him to answer if she was honest with herself. He said: “My assignment concludes here. This will be the last time we are in direct contact for the presumable future. You’ll have a new detail assigned to you in a few days. Now, in the event something is to go terribly wrong, you can contact me through this number.”

Madeleine studied him for a moment. “Do you always give your number to clients?”

“Well, since you are about to be working as an informant, and given your father’s standing, I think it would be prudent to see you are afforded more than the barebones level of security, no?”

Madeleine kept her gratitude close behind a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll make sure to keep that in mind the next time someone breaks into my flat.”

A small smile flickered across his face and touched his eyes, then faded. Despite the scarification it gave him the look of a man several years younger. “This is only a last resort.” His tone was much more stoic. She took his hand when offered and they shook on it. He said, “Good luck, Madeleine.” There was no lingering sentimentality. He simply turned and left.

Madeleine thought the prospect of quiet in solitude was pretty appealing. But she was also left with a strange, intangible feeling of emptiness she could not explain away. She started unpacking to distract herself and confirmed her appointment with Diakonhjemmet in the coming morning.

⁂

After one month Madeleine knew what was expected of her. She would leave around daybreak, before the sun was up, and get to work reviewing without fear of being interrupted. She worked in the southern wing of the hospital. She had a detail but this was much more subtle than her escort on part of Safin. Just a couple innocuous men she knew by name and appearance who walked her to and from the premises. They did not speak much so after a few weeks she had grown used to them, if a little annoyed at the ostentatiousness of it all. But they offered no ill-will and she afforded them the same courtesy.

Her office was a bit more spacious this time around. Very cold and modern, unlike her set-up in Paris, but she had no interest in furnishings. She did not want to allow for a kind of emotional attachment—and yet, it was inevitable she would begin some subconscious pattern of familiarity after the weeks began to pass and she became more accustomed to the layout of the clinic and the city. Like the scent of one’s home ingrained in one’s olfactory senses she did not want to become numb to the sense of danger through misplaced paranoia alone.

Rent wouldn’t be an issue if her new salary was any indication. The amount exceeded that which would be expected for someone of her current skill level—so there had to be a reason for such tacit bribery. When pressed for her specialty she had marked down _psychologist consultant_ and been as upfront as possible about her other activities—three years after graduating out of Oxford, her short time with the MSF, just to be sure there hadn’t been some misunderstanding.

Her secretary was an older woman by name of Hannah who sized her up upon their first meeting and simply said, "You'll do." She gave her the number of the man who introduced himself as Mr. Oberhauser. Despite what Safin had built him up to be he came off as genial enough. He sounded like an older man and had a distinct Austrian accent. He did not ask many questions, simply reinstated that she would be working with the diversion program and report her results twice a week. She thanked him for the opportunity and he said that she would do better to prove herself first.

She would see ordinary clients four days out of the week—men, women and children, mostly middle-to-upper class families. On Fridays she was to deal with more specific clients the as part of the diversion program. So, this was assuredly what Safin had been indicating. She would be notified by phone when it was time; it really wasn't much different than her work in Paris.

The subjects for the diversion program carried themselves with a debonair that would suggest opulence—and corruption. It was not in their wealth but the way they carried themselves. They all had very specific problems and most wanted to talk their way out of it. She took down their reactions and tried to lead them to a conclusion that could be classified as tolerably successful. Oberhauser seemed pleased enough but it was difficult to get a read on him; he was a very direct man and did not waste words—it was that much more difficult to say what he was thinking over the phone. About the only time she got a compliment out of him was when he called her work “satisfactory”.

She was also graciously assured that the rate of incidence had gone down by forty-five percent since last year, and the police were always on standby if an issue happened to arise. Suddenly the presence of her own specific detail was a lot more foreboding. The whole clinic seemed to carry with it this oppressive sense of safety as a veneer. The topics of conversation were chosen deliberately and rarely did the subject of home life among her colleagues ever come up. Madeleine she felt as though she had been welcomed into an environment that understood her principles more innately than most other people in her life. But she wouldn't call herself happy. She was merely confident in her ability to flourish in a situation that was tailored neatly towards her predisposition. It was not an ample cause for celebration, but it was at least reassuring in the same way the Beretta was a cold, constant weight in her bag.

Each time she was alone in her apartment, a feeling of despair would settle over her in an intimate, silent way. Throughout the years this had been her most steadfast companion. It did occur to her that she might fix an appointment herself—but that was almost too ironic, and her reservations towards being scrutinised had not changed since adolescence.

Dreams, if she had them anymore, were often hazy and irrational, and recalling them only made sense from an emotional context—she had no more about the cabin in Altaussee but thought about it sometimes in waking hours. When she was a preteen she had begun to delude herself into the possibility that she had just repressed some traumatic memory. Had she known, deep down, that the gunman—it was still a little difficult to think of him as Safin—was never going to hurt her? From a logical perspective, this was more likely a result of her brain trying to process the revelation foisted upon her. The intense dislike she felt towards Safin had shifted, in his absence, towards a more welcome target. While she had not seen her father since Sion, one meeting was all it took to reignite all those ill feelings from years past. Did the cycle of abuse and treachery end when one cut off contact with such a family member, or was it simply inhibited? It was an interesting question but in the present context only filled her with misery.

The information Safin had provided her seemed to recontextualise every action White had taken thus far. It had been delivered to her in an impassive, logical manner, walking her through the steps—it would have been simpler to keep her wandering in the dark, unknowing. Suppose he was only telling her part of the story in order to manipulate her into going along to Oslo—she wouldn't put it past her father to resort to such cruel measures. This conclusion should have put the matter to rest, but truth be told she was only coming up with more questions and dead-ends.

But Safin had known precisely who she was and what she stood to lose from the moment they first laid eyes upon each other, perhaps even before then. Madeleine couldn't think of a more wretched thing to do to somebody. Still, she knew precious little about his background and could only infer. If he was really seventeen when she was nine it was rather strange to think he would be working with SPECTRE officially. Suppose he was hired from outside sources—it would be far more efficient that way, and at such a young age, it was more likely that he would be seen as a disposable means of getting the job done—the fact that he’d been seen and let her live suggested he was either conflicted or trying to stick to the assignment. The origin of his grudge against organisations such as MSF seemed unrelated.

Oh God, why was she even entertaining this? It was insane! Why would her father orchestrate his wife's murder? Why wouldn't he make sure his own daughter was out of harm's way? The truth was that she had been thinking about contacting White again, because even her pride was not that important as learning the truth. However she might feel, he was the only family she had easy, relatively secure contact with. That was no reason to stick by him—but she was hardly eager to put her trust in a man like Safin.

Then again, she wasn't a murderer. She didn't think like these monsters innately, she could only try to parse out the thought process. Her mere existence as an informant was supposed to be putting her life at risk. Even she could see the inevitability of that. If she was to settle her family’s tragedy it would be with her father, not one of his business associates. But who was to say her she would not be subjected to the same fate as her late mother—then she had to stop and wonder: was that _her_ talking, or Safin?

There was no love lost between her and her father. As for Safin, she had not seen him in weeks. It was his hesitation contrasted by Oberhauser's muted confidence in her that gave her reason to reconsider. They were both vying for control—that was inevitable when you had an organisation of highly dangerous and competent men. To what end, she was not quite sure—as far as she and Safin were concerned, individually, they were locked into an environment that crippled them. Just as the volatile nature of his idealism could not be repressed indefinitely, her sense of paranoia could not be assuaged by a clinic full of well-spoken, immaculately-dressed socialites and staff that sometimes looked at her as if she were already a corpse on the cover of that day’s tabloid, hauled naked and bruised from the belly of the Akerselva river several miles away, to be discarded without identification.

The very worst of it was waiting for the day she'd see that same look in the eyes of her father.

⁂

After the loss of No 11 the inner workings of SPECTRE had been summarily yet insidiously fractured. Each operative now turned his or her eyes upon the other as was their dogma. The question of knowing whom to trust outside of their given fraternity became all-the-more nebulous—but in a time so critical it was imperative that they did not fall prey to obsessive suspicion. After several gruelling months of damage control, playing catch-up, they were stabilised again. This in part was thanks to the efforts of No 4—Max Denbigh, a new import from MI6. No 1 was determined to mend the rift through subterfuge.

No 8 had done all he could to rectify his past mistakes. QUANTUM was a heavy loss but the absence of No 11 presented an opportunity to redeem himself. So he got right to work establishing connections and requesting favours, and pretty soon he was well on his way to where he had been. Though he would never reach the exact level of success he had once had—and it stung—he was still useful in the eyes of No 1 and that was, for now, good enough.

Now the meeting was held in Rome, on a chilled autumn evening that did not touch the inhabitants of the room. They went around the great table reviewing each member’s results. No 4 and No 5 were responsible for infiltration and continuous surveillance of MI5 and MI6’s activity—No 4 was meant to integrate the two for the sake of collaboration and thus dilute their respective branches through automation. No 7 and No 12 were concerned with a series of small and seemingly unrelated acts of terrorism in West Africa. The matter was still in-progress but the latter was discreetly recognised for bringing the new informant, Dr Madeleine Swann, in without trouble.

The other operatives around the table were quiet. The most obvious takeaway from such a call would be one of blatant nepotism. It would have not been unreasonable, under a different leader and a different climate, to call this into question. But No 1 was not a man to be trifled with. Time and time again he had pulled the organisation together and despite the series of incidents over the last twelve years, there was no lasting ill-will felt towards him from any member at the table. They were still bound together by something deeper than the need for money or power—it was a twisted, perilous family fashioned from the best of the best in criminal enterprises. At the head of the table, draped in shadows, he became a presence more than mere man.

Now all eyes turned upon No 12. The look on his face was devoid of any obvious sentiment and he held No 1's eyes without faltering. But No 1 was really looking past him, at No 8. No 8 was confident in his ability to bring what he could, but the idea of his daughter being made a target displeased him greatly.

At the end of the meeting he requested for a scheduled audience with No 1’s second-in-command, No 3. No 1 usually rejected these out of principle around this time of year, but No 3 looked him over with an element of surprise and said, "He’ll see you now."

So they were out in the grand hall, draped in shadows. The cold air was biting but not enough to sting. "You must forgive me,” said No 8 to the empty room. “I was not aware she would be made an example in front of the entire table."

"She has agreed to the conditions on her own terms and given no sign of deviation. I am sure you are quite worried, as a father. But all birds have to leave the nest eventually." No 8 held his tongue. He could not speak his reservations aloud and damn his daughter and himself in one fell swoop. But he knew very well the implications of this—it would be most unfortunate if she were turned against him before he had time to explain himself. "If you believe there is an issue that was overlooked you may speak of it. If not, then what was the point of this meeting?"

“I simply wanted confirmation. I do not wish for her to think she is in more danger than she actually is.”

“Yes, that is understandable." No 1's eyes were impassive. "Good evening, No 8.”

⁂

After just under two months Madeleine had settled into this new life as well as she could. Her anger had not vanished but simply fizzled out. It took a lot of effort to stay upset when she hadn't seen the bearer of bad news or her father in a while. She bought herself some more appropriate clothes for the season and felt a little lighter, though not free.

In the time since coming to Oslo, Madeleine had never seen Mr. Oberhauser in person. Now that she was more used to his voice she could put together an idea of his personality. From his concise way of speaking she figured any warmth construed was all for the sake of business—at the same time, he was always personable enough, not unlike the better impressions of her father putting up the charade of personability with his associates. She had stuck with Safin's advice and not talked about her personal life—not that there was much to say these days—but Oberhauser had not enquired beyond a few rote questions about her past work experience, nothing about her family. His calling her work _satisfactory_ did not appear to be a slight.

Now, in a week she would be turning twenty-seven. She had her father’s number. The call would redirect to a secretary if she could not reach him. On the rare occasions she had cause to contact him he usually picked up without much delay. She hardly expected him to this time, but if she wanted any closure she had to try. She tried twice. On the third time she was almost grateful to hear his voice in a sick, vindictive way.

He sounded just as surprised as anyone else that she was calling him out of her own volition. So she invited White to a nice dinner over at the Radisson Blu Plaza Hotel. She’d already gone a handful of times when she felt a little less lonely and the view was at least pleasing to the eye. She could probably not impress her father, but she wanted at least to entertain the idea of nicety for herself if nothing else.

While deciding what to order he asked a few careful questions about her employment. He did not enquire about Safin and she didn’t bring him up either. But eventually Madeleine couldn’t stand it any longer. She could only feign interest in the immaculate lights and the dizzying view outside, several storeys up, where the city skyline was at level with her eyes and everything else was rendered small and insignificant in the sun’s setting rays.

“Have you visited her grave?” she asked. “ _Maman’s_ grave?”

Mr. White did not excuse himself. He just said: “It has been a long time. Have you?”

“I can see why you wouldn’t be concerned. You wanted her out of the way.”

Mr White had gone very quiet. He was looking at her steadily. The old eyes in the low ambience were beady and cold. “What gives you that impression?”

Madeleine finally hesitated. “Honestly, I pieced it together by myself, more-or-less.” A white lie. “It was strange, how you didn’t come to help me until I shot at the man who killed her.”

“I never intended for you to get involved. What was done was done. And you’ve always talked about wanting to have your own life—at the time, I thought I was giving you a chance to start with a fresh slate and since you never asked, I thought I had done something right by you.”

"I was nine years old," said Madeleine, unable to hide the derisiveness from her voice. She could not be expected to undo seventeen-going on-eighteen years of unresolved emotional turmoil but she thought she would be strong enough not to resort to the obvious emotional upheaval. She was not sure if she should be disappointed more in herself or White.

“Madeleine,” he said, in a tone of evenness. “Listen to me at least. I do not expect forgiveness. I raised you to be strong enough to make the right call. You did what you could given the circumstances, and I was proud of you then. I am still proud. But you can either let this failure define you or you can move on.”

“Am I really just an investment to you?”

The look of shock on his face was almost worth the line. She hadn’t expected an apology. She was not about to give him the opportunity to flounder around one either. They had dinner in silence. She thanked him coldly for his time and left before he could say anything to make this worse. Later, in the privacy of her apartment she would allow herself, with enough time, to process the feeling of betrayal. She thought this would bring her closure and all but it was just another slap in the face—the real blow to her dignity was making her feelings known.

Now it stung, not just because of what White had said but to infer that Safin wasn’t lying either. She’d wanted, part of her anyway, to believe it wasn’t true but there were only so many ways to spin a lie before the similarities started lining up. The only positive she could see coming out of this was that she didn’t have to deal with Safin for the foreseeable future… and right now she was certain of one thing: She was her own most invaluable ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A diversion program in the criminal justice system is a form of sentence in which the criminal offender joins a rehabilitation program, which will help remedy the behavior leading to the original arrest, allow the offender to avoid conviction and, in some jurisdictions, hide a criminal record. The programs are often run by a police department, court, a district attorney's office, or outside agency.


	7. NEVER BE THE SAME

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1996—2004; Chronicling Safin's first mission for Shatterhand, and how he came to join SPECTRE. 2014; No 12 and No 8 reach an understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s my attempt to tackle Safin’s backstory, working inside the guidelines provided by various quotes by both the film’s director and the actor, as well as my own inferences. Formatting errors will be fixed in post. That aside, I hope it’s to your liking!

The mining sector in Guinea contributed around a quarter of the country's income, with bauxite production taking priority of importance. Over the last few years there had been an ongoing effort to modernise and re-structure the aluminium industry in order to increase production as well as efficiency. Guinea possessed over 25 billion tonnes of bauxite—perhaps up to one-half of the world's reserves. In addition, Guinea's mineral wealth included more than 4-billion tonnes of high-grade iron ore, significant diamond and gold deposits, and undetermined quantities of uranium. Options for investment and commercial activities existed, but a combination of poorly developed infrastructure and rampant corruption kept the matter obstructive to most outside investors. But not to SPECTRE.

Three companies were responsible for the bulk of Guinea's bauxite production. The largest producer was the Sangarédi, operated by _Compagnie des Bauxites de Guinée_ (CBG). Half was owned by the Guinean government and the other half by an international consortium, itself a joint venture. The Alumina Company of Guinea (ACG-Fria) was the main aluminium producing company in the country. It was majority-owned by foreign investors. The state owned _Societé des Bauxites de Kindia_ (SBK) handled the Kindia mining operations, whose production was exported to the Ukraine.

Among his other dealings No 8 would handle the matter of negotiation—and embezzlement—with the companies involved in joint venture as well as their proprietors. No 7 was working to temper the unavoidable narrative of chemical warfare. No 12’s job was to ensure the aforementioned companies were able to conduct mining operations and transport bauxite to the harbour without suffering further interruption from outside forces. The harbours had been tentatively reopened but under strict guidelines—only a handful of companies were allowed passage, at specific times, and CBG and AGC-Fria took priority.

No 12 was overseeing his own detail as before. They would arrive in Sangarédi Airport, make contact with the LAGUIPRES SECURITE—a security detail local to the country—and proceed from there to the aptly named sub-prefecture. Their route for mobilisation passed through several integral mining sectors. Once the mission was completed, No 12 and the adjoining operatives would await orders from No 3.

⁂

Safin was born May 9th, 1978, the unwanted by-product of a military commandant and a prostitute. The first fourteen years of his life were spent in Verny, Kazakhstan as a ward of the state. Due to development by the Soviet Union as well as relocation of workers and industries from European areas of the Soviet Union during World War II, Verny had plenty of ethnic Russians and Ukrainian. He knew from his records that his father was Russian and his mother was mixed—North Caucasian and Czechoslovakian—but had never met either parent before. Alive or not, Safin figured this was indication enough of where they stood. Confidence in this decision did not erase the hollow sentiment of being discarded. There was always this terse understanding that he was an exception, not anyone’s first choice—so his relationship with the entities that served to protect him were similarly detached and cautious.

In spite of this he did not go out of the way to cause trouble for the man who fostered him during this period—a non-descript veteran of the USSR now in his mid-to-late forties. Sokolov was his name. He’d been in counterintelligence. Suffered several injuries during the war but was never discharged for it. Now he had made an attempt to settle down. His wife had passed on a few years ago, leaving behind a decent, empty home. Despite her wanting a child, they had none of their own—the most Sokolov ever deigned to say about the matter was that she was barren.

His home was pretty small, but sparingly furnished. It got cold as hell at night. Sokolov kept few pictures; his family, and his wife, and that was it.

Any affection between them was understood in terms of deeds, not words. A colder impression of love, but it rang true—Safin was young enough to soak up that impression and carry it with him for the remainder of his life. Sokolov could only pass on what he knew from his own father. Obviously he decided that Safin had to be put through schooling. He taught him enough about the country’s history on his own time and asked a few questions about his own heritage that Safin honestly could not answer aside from what he knew from his records.

Most of the time Sokolov was genial. Never truly happy, in a deeply intimate sense Safin wouldn’t quite understand until he was older. He smoked infrequently. Drank more often. He liked listening to music—old waltzes, mainly—and had a subtler appreciation for literature that he would try and impart onto Safin with varying measures of success. But he was clearly struggling with his own demons, if not from the war, then four decades worth of ruthless propaganda.

This, in turn, would translate into physical violence. Sokolov wouldn’t apologise afterwards so much as wordlessly decide if Safin was able to walk and look presentable. He never did anything else to harm him, and he wouldn’t antagonise him outright while sober.

As Safin got older, and with the ongoing threat of the USSR’s collapse in the background, there was a sense of unease that hadn’t been there before. Safin had decided for himself, very early on, that he would not be made a victim or remain indebted to others. Life in the company of any state-imposed foster candidate was better than trying to survive on the streets or waiting around on behalf of the government to be picked out.

He was not a particularly sentimental boy but he felt crippled by the persistence of his own emotional dissonance and abandonment in ways he could not articulate. So he withdrew into himself and brittle, hollow anger followed. This did not help him at school. He’d come home with minor injuries, bloodied knuckles, silent. Sokolov would say little of it. He was oddly understanding in that sense—at least for his standards, and only up to a point.

The only way Safin knew how to explain any of this was to ask, gruffly, if what he felt made him weak. Sokolov seemed incredulous at the idea, even offended. All he said was: “You’d have never made it this far if you were.”

And it was true in more than one sense. Sokolov was drinking more often. He never beat him within an inch of his life, but several times came close enough that Safin wondered if he’d remember to stop himself. He started getting looks, a few questions from his instructors that only ever resonated in the sense of protocol rather than genuine concern.

But there were strange moments of levity. Sometimes Sokolov would just talk about what he’d seen during his childhood, or enlistment, or his wife, and Safin would listen, because it was obvious to him that this man had no one else to share the knowledge with. Sokolov wanted him to be equipped to face the world in ways he had not. The innumerable horrors as what had befallen Russia and its neighbouring countries under occupation of Soviet rule, when his own father was a boy, back at the turn of 1910s. There was no more war, not officially, but this peace was a transitionary period. The most consistent rule Sokolov put into his head was to keep what he knew to himself and not to trust this new era of _glasnost_ being heralded by the public at large to protect him. In the end, all he had was himself.

⁂

Due to No 12’s prior success with Conakry, as well as a string of other similar deployments, there was a high demand for his skillset. Safin had no foreseeable vices to exploit. Ostensibly he simply did what was ordered and nothing more. He had the military background and the ground-level experience, so he could blend into a variety of settings and not be questioned. Most of his projects with SPECTRE up until 2012 were just unofficial periods of enlistment anyway—and a good number of his fellow associates wouldn’t set foot in the middle of these less-developed countries without their own private detail at minimum. Now, Safin figured it was not unwise to take precautions, but he also liked to think this set him apart.

The dead and wounded workers had to be replaced—and the CBG did not employ locals. Tension was inevitable between their displaced labourers and substitutes, as well as the local Guineans who could probably do the work just as efficiently. The businesses aligned with SPECTRE were allowed free passage. This, coupled with a series of crippling power-shortages throughout the week, was reason enough to incite a riot. Several had been attempted but quickly put to a stop by the on-site military force. Casualties were severe, but to be expected. It was up to No 12 to ensure a cleaner job.

From the miners, and eventually among the Guinean half of the detail, there was a lot of talk about the circumstances surrounding the initial situation in March. Since it was now strongly suspected to be a chemical attack and not a virus, their official intelligence had been quick to blame the insurrectionists despite an obvious disparity of resources and specialised military experience. Few, if any, trusted the government’s official word. They looked to Safin differently. He was not just another bureaucrat but an officer—whether he was to be respected or loathed would depend on how he acted.

No 12 employed the same procedure with civilians as he did the team assigned to him. He made contact with the necessary outliers in order to determine where the disruptions were coming from—a smaller village not too far from their initial site. He sent a team of locals to gather intelligence and provide misinformation to those suspected to be the key figures. If they succeeded, they would be paid a small but respectable cut and left alive. There would be no excessive use of force. Any active insurrectionist would be brought in and interrogated. If they opened fire or attempted to incite any damage to the property or workers, they would be shot on sight and their sympathisers were no different. Hesitation or failure to follow these orders would get you shot. Negotiation was only acceptable up to a certain point, in the interest of sparing bloodshed.

For the ones that proved themselves capable, Safin would usually offer a greater shot than what their local government was and secure a few private military contracts when appropriate—once you had their loyalty, you didn't need to resort to intimidation or brute force or false promises. On a more subtle level he sometimes imagined he was doing them a better service than their supposed benefactors, but this was his own, private tenet.

⁂

Once he reached his formative years he was put through military school. The year was 1992. Almaty Republican Military School was one of several Republican Special Boarding Schools. These were created in the early 1980s on the basis of the Suvorov Military Schools and were subordinate to the Ministry of Education of the USSR until last December. The [Commonwealth of Independent States](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Commonwealth_of_Independent_States) were nationalised and so his school, as well as several others, came under the auspices of the local defense ministries.

There were stories passed around by other cadets about brothers, fathers, other relatives beset with the peacetime draft and their rates of success in absconding—this was their foreseeable future, and there was not much patriotism left. Within the first month Safin had ensured he would not make himself a target. In the eyes of the instructors he was, for the most part, just another conscript to be shaped into a reservist in four years. In the eyes of his peers it seemed he would not be winning anyone over.

Even at fifteen, Safin was smaller for his age. He talked so infrequently that there was initially some concern with the medical staff that he had, thanks to his erratic upbringing, suffered some kind of developmental disorder. Otherwise he was a diligent student. He followed orders well but chose to avoid working with anyone else if it could be helped. He was a decent shot. He made acquaintances with some of the other boys but he wouldn’t really call them friends. He didn’t talk about his life before enlistment, and after a month they gave up trying to ask him anything and just watched him resentfully from the side-lines.

Most of the time he was left alone. But not always. One would think they’d all be able to put aside their differences and find some kind of common ground, talk about how shitty the food was, and these damned instructors trying to prepare them for a war that had for all intents and purposes ended last year, but no. None of his peers were particularly affluent nor were they damningly poor, but it hardly mattered. The other boys all travelled in packs, like wild dogs. He was a loner by choice.

So by proxy it was decided he must think himself better—in retrospect, he made himself an easy target. Usually happened during unarmed combat. He wound up in the infirmary frequently enough, bloodied and sullen and slightly humiliated that he was still just as feeble as he’d been before. Well, that wasn’t quite the case. He could hold his own in a fair fight—he knew how to leave his opponent in far worse condition but had enough sense to hold back; he didn’t want to be kicked out for unwonted brutality. He could not retaliate reliably when up against someone bigger—such was the case with Bronev. There was something inscrutable about Safin that got under his skin. He had the same look in his eyes that Sokolov would get when he also asked about his background. Safin told him he was just here to become a soldier like anyone else.

Within the span of a few more days Bronev was circling him like a vulture. Always trying to start something. This culminated in throwing a few innocuous punches at each other during passing time, much to the delight of the other boys, spoiling for some excitement. It didn’t go much further than Bronev sporting a bloodied nose by the end of it. There was a crushing handshake and few disgruntled comments from the nurses. But nothing more came of this for a week.

Safin wanted to figure that was the end of it. But he knew better. Bronev wasn’t just bigger but cleverer. He didn’t want to look like he’d lost in front of the boys for—whatever stupid reason he had it out for him. He’d bide his time.

They were exiting class, due for unarmed combat. Back in the courtyard. Bronev lingered back so he might catch up to Safin. Different, older crowd of boys met and enclosed them. The reason was irrelevant. Just another fight. Stupidly, Safin said: “I’ll go easy on you.”

Bronev grinned, all teeth. Then he said something about the instructor coming over. Other boys looked up convincingly enough that Safin fell for it. Bronev sucker punched him.

World tilted—winded, Safin found himself on the ground and Bronev on top of him—incredulity turned into rage that he’d been tricked so easily. Threw his arms up but it wasn’t much help. Mouth full of blood, Safin went for his stomach, groin, anything—worked enough that his grip lessened—and blood was slippery—got enough distance between himself and Bronev to land a punch, hard enough to split knuckles on teeth. Bronev on the ground, shocked, recoiling. Safin didn’t stop. Other boys were yelling. It wasn’t encouragement. It took two kids to pull Safin off and hold him back. Panting hard.

Bronev was still breathing but he didn’t get up. His face was a mess of flesh and blood.

Safin remembered sitting upright in the infirmary afterwards, still running off adrenaline. It was a clear day outside and the sunlight against the white sheets reflected blindingly. The flow of blood from his nose had lessened, still pulsed dully. He was able to staunch it but could not use his right hand without significant pain in his fingers. Probably broken. He was no longer furious enough to ignore his injuries. Blood spattered on his uniform had dried. His jaw was starting to bruise. He felt around for a loose tooth and the pain grounded him.

The nurse had given up trying to expend pity a long time ago. Now she just tried not to look at him—well, she didn’t understand, she hadn’t been there.

When he was presentable, he was called down to see Voronin, the head instructor. Voronin was highly respected by his peers and the students had a complicated relationship with him, erring somewhere between admiration and intimidation. There were several persistent rumours that he had ties to the USSR but no one dared ask about it. Of all their instructors, he was the most exacting as well as the oldest. He asked a few questions about Bronev’s history with him, and Safin answered honestly. He had entered the office fully expecting to be discharged.

Instead, he was informed that he would be discharged if this happened again. His marks and reputation for staying out of trouble had saved him in that aspect.

Most of the other boys didn’t seem to hate either of them outright. Safin’s reputation with them didn’t go beyond the realm of petty jealousy, or the easily understood desire to stay out of the line of fire. Safin could not fault them completely—in their position, he’d probably do the same—but it was difficult to look any of them in the eye and maintain respect. None of their superiors seemed keen to do anything about it as long as he could run through drills and complete his assignments—which also wouldn’t have rankled with Safin much, except for the fact that he was clearly being singled out. He didn’t care about the reasons behind it, just wanted to put an end to this. As tempting as it was to resort solely to few words and intimidation, this was clearly not enough anymore. If Safin couldn't have respect he would take fear. 

Once Bronev had recovered they were both made to be sparring partners for the next two weeks. They were not paired off without close observation from the instructors but it was increasingly obvious something was amiss. Safin didn’t understand it until Bronev mentioned it to him once, in-passing: “They think you’re a fuckup.”

“What?”

“They want us to kill each other. Or for you to kill me so they can kick you out.”

Safin, at a loss, didn’t answer. Bronev grunted: “So are you, or what?”

“I thought once was enough.”

Bronev shut up. They were definitely not friends. But neither of them wanted to be kicked out. After two tense weeks they were no longer stuck with each other and Bronev left him alone. For the rest of his duration in military school Safin had no trouble.

There were still plenty of other, grisly stories thrown around about _dedovshchina—_ the informal practise of initiation, hazing, or else abuse of authority, on part of the senior officers that had cropped up in the Soviet Armed Forces and was no different for the Russian Armed Forces. Just something else to look forward to in the next step.

December, 1995. He’d be turning eighteen in May, ready to graduate.

One morning the instructor pulled him aside and told him there was someone asking to see him. For a brief, stupid moment Safin thought of his biological father, not Sokolov. He tried to stuff the feeling down.

The man introduced himself as Doctor Guntram Shatterhand, a retired horticulturalist and botanist. Back in the sixties he had specialised in subtropical species. He made the right connections with the equivalent authorities in Japan, as well as several experts in the Ministry of Agriculture, and sunk at least a million pounds into establishing an private garden in which he would stock with a priceless collection of rare plants and shrubs from over the world. He had made back his money and then turned a steep profit.

From that job description he didn’t seem like the kind of man who’d be fraternising with a bunch of teenage cadets. But he claimed to have heard about Safin from the instructors and was interested to know if he would hear him out. “I have a proposition,” said Shatterhand. “A colleague of mine has requested a simple hit on his wife. You have been trained accordingly, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Should you agree, you will be provided transport to Altaussee and back to Kazakhstan by way of an associate—his name is Gruber. He will collect you in two weeks’ time. Perform satisfactorily and you will receive the appropriate payment. Fail and your contract will be terminated.”

Safin paused. “How much?”

Shatterhand didn’t smile. But there was a flicker in the eyes that made him pause. “I will assess your performance and then decide.”

Two weeks later, Safin was checking into the Hotel Seevilla under a false name and considering his plan. It was certainly a step-up from what he was used to. The climate here was biting and Gruber had gotten a kick out of his quiet fascination with snow, much to Safin’s disgruntlement.

He received several odd looks because he was obviously not from around the area, but he let Gruber do most of the talking and tried to be polite. He had a package waiting in his room for him—postman’s uniform, complete with bag. A standard-issue pistol and silencer. And a porcelain mask, intricately painted. Seemed impractical.

He was instructed to take the motorised dory because it would be anticipated by Mr. White. It was not the approach Safin would have favoured but he had no choice.

The lake was almost undisturbed. He was struck by the sight—like a sprawling pane of glass. He willed himself to focus on the task at hand. When he reached the dock he left the motor running. It was a two-storey cabin, well-kept. A flight of stairs led to the door. He walked up to it, pistol at the ready. At the door he knocked, stood back, waited. From the other side came two voices in muffled French.

The door opened and the woman set eyes on him. Safin fired twice, into the chest and the head. The woman crumpled. Behind her the entrance hall lay undisturbed—there was a girl. She did not move from her position beside the stairs, as though her lack of movement would make her less of a target.

The coat told him she was well looked-after. She looked old enough to know better than to linger. They stared at each other. She raised her arms out in front of her and his eyes locked onto the gun in her hands. She pointed it at his face, her teeth bared, eyes glittering with hatred. He levelled his own gun at her. Part of him didn't think she would be foolish enough to try and retaliate.

Then she pulled the trigger. Her gun wasn’t silenced. Her aim was slightly off-kilter and it hit his jaw, broke the mask—white-hot pain. He was angrier more than pained. Knew he couldn't linger. She wasn’t firing any more rounds. Was she stupid? He could easily retaliate. He worked his jaw and heard a different voice barking from the hall—the girl froze, wide-eyed.

They locked eyes. It wouldn’t do him any good to kill her. She had not seen his face and it was likely she had no idea who he really was. If he tried to dissuade her she might change her mind and shoot him in the head—so he raised his hand towards her in a sign of surrender but kept the gun ready. Her hands trembled. He pivoted his body as though to duck. By the time she found her nerve and fired again, he was already out the door.

He did not take the dory back. It was a miserable hour’s walk around the lake. His jaw throbbed. As soon as he was in a secure location he disposed of the mask and set to treating his wound. The girl was a decent shot for a civilian—but more importantly, she was an outlier. Shatterhand and Gruber had neglected to inform him there was a daughter. With this luck he’d probably be set upon in a few hours by White’s friends.

To say Safin was furious with himself was an understatement—in his mind he’d just fucked up one of the biggest opportunities of his short-lived military career. But once his anger cleared he reminded himself that he could not afford to be rash. He had not been seen explicitly. He had killed the woman as directed. The girl was pretty much insignificant.

When he returned to Shatterhand he was congratulated formally. Safin was about to mention the mask then thought better of it. It was Shatterhand that brought up the situation, and the daughter— _Madeleine_. The guilt must have shown on Safin’s face because Shatterhand misinterpreted his reaction, shrugged him off and said he had several more like it—as a matter of fact it was only a replica. When Safin didn’t respond, the man looked almost incredulous, or amused, coldly so.

He turned eighteen in May, and was due to report to the local military commissariat, or _voyenkomat_ , for assessment for military service. The list of summons came from every school and employer in the area. Since the fall of the USSR and a lower birth-rate in 1991 the number of applicants was not ideal. Safin had no other prospects. They could not dismiss him. He was of-age and able-bodied. The _voyenkomat_ worked to quotas sent out by a department of the General Staff, in order to determine the amount of men required by each service and branch of the Armed Forces.

There were only a small number of professional non-commissioned officers (NCOs), as most were conscripts themselves meant prepare them for section commanders' and platoon sergeants'. The NCOs in turn were supplemented by _praporshchik_ warrant officers, positions created in the 1960s to support the increased variety of skills required for modern weapons.

The Soviet Army's officer-to-soldier ratio was top-heavy in an effort to compensate for the military manpower base’s lower education and absence of professional NCOs. After World War II there had been a great expansion of officer education. Officers now were the product of four-to-five-year higher military colleges. Newly commissioned officers received only three days off per month. Annual vacations were under threat if deficiencies were found within the unit. Morale amongst young officers was severely lacking. As before, Safin ensured he would be seen as exceptional. He did not undertake the effort for any ostentatious reason. He wanted to be seen as nothing less than what he was—a highly valuable candidate who could not be dismissed without thought.

After three years of this, he was transferred to Volgograd, in Russia, to continue as an Engineering Specialist. There was talk of reform for the Russian military forces throughout the duration of his enlistment as well as afterward. The issues with the military were complex and the result of several factors. Lack of success in the Afghan War reflected on the professional credibility of the Soviet armed forces. Several links with the Communist Party saddled the military with the politicians’ corruption and incompetence. _Glasnost_ only served to damage the reputation of the military further with stories of abuse of authority. And so on, so forth. It was a seemingly endless amount of problems and a lack of manpower and coherence to resolve this cleanly.

Safin had seen enough during his conscription to solidify his tenet. He wasn't a prodigy or anything so ostentatious. But he was a hell of a lot more dedicated than most of the other conscripts around him, because he knew he had no options outside of this environment. Most either thought he was insane or some kind of politicised idiot who fancied himself a savant. He had not been born into a life of peace. He wasn't about to settle for being at the whims of any incompetent or disrespectful officer. He was willing to bide his time and do whatever it took to reach the very top of the ladder. Then he could start enacting changes and reform the military. This much was in-reach.

Shatterhand kept in touch through proxy of Voronin and other nameless associates; Safin found the pay was better when he stuck to outsourcing. He remained dependable and precise, and pretty soon he had a reputation.

⁂

January, 2014.

Progress overall had been slow but manageable. There were several attempted riots and attacks, but all were intercepted quickly. No deaths. Only minor damages sustained. Their route continued and it was more of the same; no deaths, minor damages. And then—several chemical attacks in Boké. The SECURITIE men were growing uneasy. Unlike Safin and his private team they had families and livelihoods—a lot more to lose. He kept this in mind as he ordered them accordingly.

A week before this No 12 and No 4 had discussed the consequences of wiping out massive swathes of the African population in order to acquire natural resources. No 12 thought it was unnecessary to kill a massive amount in such a short amount of time. The corruption within the government was useful but not the issue—if they were to let it play out like a virus, it would, with enough scrutiny, soon enough draw unwanted attention to SPECTRE's machinations—there were always eyes on them. If it were introduced into the hands of supposed insurrectionists they could be used as a proxy—it was not only true but easily manipulated.

No 4 had agreed. Then asked why in the hell 12 saw fit to keep messing about with these ground-level tactics when he could simply stand back and let the government handle it. It was a lot of extra legwork and far less efficient. It introduced another proxy layer, cushioning the blame.

No 12 had been ready to agree. Then No 4 added:

“As I’ve said, you’re only one man. It’s inefficient this way. And it lays the groundwork for unreliability. Take No 11; despite his experience as MI6, despite his cyber-terroristic prowess, despite all of this, in the end he proved to be a loose cannon. Same as Le Chiffre or any other failure which was not tolerated. Any one person can develop a _conscience_ or his own set of principles, and go awry—we are a fraternity first and foremost. It is fear that is a more powerful harbinger to the world at large.”

“If these smaller groups and their governments can benefit from joining us, they will have less reason to act out of line. Just keep them around and dispose of them as needed.”

“Yes. But you’re presuming they will not begin to form their own ideas.” No 12 had looked at him coolly. “Come on, they’re hardly professionals. They’re just—well, you’ve been down there yourself.”

“You can’t always ensure anyone will perform to their potential from behind a desk.”

No 4 had laughed. “Of course not! I didn’t mean to imply there is absolutely no use for ground-work. That would be—well, a utopian ideal.”

Truthfully, Safin’s experience as a soldier had gotten him fairly little recognition in the long run. More probably, his skillset was too specific and could only get him so far in the world of organised crime—he was not some bureaucrat and would be displeased to be taken as such.

Over the years, he’d managed to create a small, tight-knit network of specialists and ex-military operatives from various countries. He wasn’t interested in money, though in 2009 he’d accrued enough to secure a small submarine pen on the coast of Vis, a small island off of Croatia. The naval base in question was a vestige of WWII and had seen several occupants, the last of which by the Yugoslav People's Army until it was abandoned in 1989. In 1991 Croatia secured its independence and their navy made no efforts to reclaim the base. Officially it was reported to be under renovation in the interest of civilian use. This was a front. Throughout the years he slowly built up the resources to make something of it. His plans were well-kept and known only to him and a handful of people.

Pretty soon he had created an unofficial, unnamed organisation tucked away within the many arms of SPECTRE. Blofeld never questioned this outright but he was acutely aware of it. Silva had been the one to suggest that Safin should follow through on the idea, but never put his faith in it completely. Safin guessed he just wanted to wash his hands of it.

⁂

By the time he was twenty-four he’d taken part in a variety of operations, several having to do indirectly with the Second Chechen War. Dozens if not hundreds of smaller jobs on behalf of Shatterhand’s contacts, rather than the man himself. These were mostly political assassinations and threats of intimidation. It got him favours and took him up the ladder far more quickly, but he accrued just as many enemies. No matter. He was a senior officer by now. With any luck, in a year, he’d be in the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation, the principal security agency of Russia and the main successor agency to the Soviet Union's KGB.

It was only a matter of time before everything caught up with him.

Overall command of the federal forces in Chechnya was transferred from the military to the FSB in January 2001. Then after less success, the government transferred the responsibility from the FSB to the [Ministry of Internal Affairs](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ministry_of_Internal_Affairs_\(Russia\)) (MVD) in July 2003.

Safin had been tipped off by an associate of Voronin’s that there were concerns of terrorist activity at the hydroelectric plant in Volgograd. Obviously, if the factory was to be targeted there could be massive casualties, both mortality wise and economic. If they were to send more than one or two men, this might cause the operative to flee; it had to be him.

So that was how he ended up alone at three in the morning. In hindsight Safin had no clue how he hadn’t seen it coming until he was already in the thick of it. Arrogance? A desire to believe he could salvage the nature of the military infrastructure through whatever means necessary?

It hardly mattered. There _was_ an incident, and it fell due to his lack of attentiveness. The authorities could never prove how it happened. His injuries were severe. He was discharged, to the outward dismay of very few. Hospitalised for weeks. Vengeance became his only consistent bedfellow. Every day he woke up fully expecting to be killed. Yet nothing more came of it. His only wish was to throw himself right back into work. A suicidal ideal—but what else had he to cling to? No family or friends of lasting importance.

Even when he had recovered enough to leave, he was crippled badly. He could not track down any one man in particular. It was around this time that Shatterhand reached out to him one final time. He had heard of the incident and thought his talent might be put to better use elsewhere. If Safin was still interested, he was not to respond but to talk to Voronin.

Unfortunately, Voronin was dead. He’d been found in his home. The story put out was that he’d passed on in his sleep. Privately Safin had to wonder elsewise. But then another name cropped up—Tiago Rodriguez. The former MI-6 agent from 1997. With enough digging, and some patience, he and Rodriguez got into contact indirectly. Safin got in touch with Shatterhand again, who in turn, introduced himself by the name of Ernst Blofeld.

And that was how he wound up in SPECTRE—a contract killer turned counterintelligence officer, defecting to one of the most infamous crime organisations in the world. At the time, he was the youngest to join at twenty-six but he refused to let it discourage him. He returned to his work, a great deal more ruthless and uncompromising. His scarification only exemplified his conviction.

Shortly before joining he adopted the name Lucifer. An ironic choice; given the history between the Russian Empire and Chechenya, it was all the more appropriate in his eyes—but he was not a man of any dedicated religious tenet. He had nothing to come home to and no one to lean on. For the following years, between his duties with SPECTRE and new work in the FSB, he made a name for himself.

By mid-February the mission was completed. On Safin’s end there had been several casualties for the terrorists. Most by now were dead or else crushed beyond reckoning. The mining companies had gotten off without permanent damages, only some inconvenience in the last two weeks. One of the members of the Guinea-side team had defected and subsequently had to be killed. For the next few days the damage was palpable. His mission became a matter of minimising casualties rather than transporting goods. That delayed their operations by at least a week. But now it was done. The suppliers were pleased with how he’d handled it. No 1 would most likely be a different story.

The cabin of the private plane carried a sombre tension. Finally remembering what you are going home to. This time it was just No 12 and No 8, the security detail, and the pilot. No 7 and No 4 had stayed behind to cement a new narrative on account of the unforeseen complications.

“Happy to be going back?” asked No 8.

No 12 looked over at him but did not answer. No 8 scoffed. “I forget how little you talk. Well, that’s all right with me. I suppose you will let me do the honours.”

No 12 did not dissuade him. He was too weary.

“On our level,” said White, “you don't get fired, you know that. After thirty years of productive work, they can't say to a man like me, ‘All right, now get out!’ They just can't do that. So what do they do? They create a situation. A situation you can't work in and finally that you can't live in with this tension, abuse. Small humiliations. It all starts out on a scale so subtle, so microscopic that at first you can't really believe it's happening at all. But gradually the thing begins to take shape. The pieces fit together—all the little bits. And it becomes unmistakable. They chip away at your pride, your security until you begin to have doubts, and then fears.”

Safin’s eyes were trained on the window, but he was listening intently.

“Understand, I am not looking for your pity. I suppose that I merely wish to… impart my own perspective onto someone with a bit more tenure to spare.”

Safin still said nothing. He heard White sigh.

“Thank you for keeping her safe.”

Safin didn’t need to ask. He turned slightly. Cast under the overhead light, White’s age became apparent. He looked almost frail.

“I know, between us, it has only ever amounted to business. But… this. This is different. You cannot understand unless you have had children. And, you’re aware, she’s all I have left.” White paused. “She’s more likely to accept her situation coming from someone else. You’ve seen that much yourself.”

Safin held his gaze. White’s expression carried the same exhaustion he’d seen in the eyes of his daughter. He said: “I’ll make sure she is made aware.”

White nodded, turned away. “There’s a reason why No 1 has favoured you this long.”

He said it plainly, without obvious emotion—he was too beaten down to resort to petty envy. But his eyes were very grave.

⁂

No 1, known to others as Franz Oberhauser or in exceptional cases, Ernst Stavro Blofeld, was a thin man whose age was not immediately apparent from the way he carried himself. He had an enigmatic smile and a childlike sparkle about his eyes that came about when he was discussing something that fascinated him. Or destroying his enemies—there was little difference. His voice was light and flat, even when he was about to send you to your death. Only the eyes ever gave him away. In official meetings he kept himself cloaked in the shadows, no longer a man but a force emanating from the head of the table.

“No 7 has delivered on her promise. You have also ensured the safe transfer of shipments. It is No 8 who came up short. A quarter of a million.” Blofeld’s lithe hands on the table remained very still, like a taxidermized model. “No 8 has claimed he was disrupted. I have reviewed the report; you were intercepted twice?"

"That’s correct, sir.”

“In the fourteen years you have come to work with SPECTRE you have provided satisfactory output. But you must understand that I have my limits. I was generous enough with QUANTUM. In this case the fault with No 8 is clear.”

No 12 waited. It was easier to go along with No 1 unless he was asking you a direct question. Most of the time he did not care either way. He was just looking for ways to pick apart whoever was on the other side of the desk.

“In addition,” continued No 1, “I have received confidence from No 4 about our colleagues over at MI6. One of them may be coming around to stick his nose into our business very soon. Their concerns lie with our involvement back in March, which will inevitably trail back to the MSF’s meeting in Oslo. This will take place a week from today.” The thin lips twisted into a smile, which did nothing to disguise his latent contempt. “I have already debriefed Dr Swann on the matter. It is your job to ensure she is kept out of the line of fire for as long as it can be helped. Otherwise you will have to take action.”

“Has there been a problem?”

“Not yet.” No 1 studied him for a moment. “I thought you would enjoy being out of West Africa for a while.”

“I'm fine where I am, sir.”

The smile on Blofeld’s face never touched the eyes; it was just another mechanical action. “There's no need to be modest. You cannot work to your potential sticking to ground missions alone.”

“That’s nothing to do with it.” No 1’s eyes sharpened. “Given Dr Swann’s position as informant, it’s inevitable she will be targeted internally or by enemies of SPECTRE. If I am to return now, it will run the risk of compromising her further.”

“For what reason would your presence compromise her?”

He thought: _You’re making her into a scapegoat. I’m not about to be pulled into something I cannot finish._ “This isn’t anything to do with her. It’s about No 8.”

Blofeld’s head inclined very slightly. “You are the third party. Aligned to no one but SPECTRE.”

No 12 was furious. It was difficult to know unless you knew him. But there was a rigidity to his frame that hadn’t been so prevalent before. His voice was taut. “You must forgive me. I was under the impression my assignment here was more pressing than—”

“No 12,” said Blofeld pithily, “it is unlike you to hold reservations. This mission is just as crucial as your previous assignment. Dr Swann is only valuable to SPECTRE as long as she remains malleable. In the five months she has been with us she has offered no trouble. You have given her more than enough information to warrant her trust and provided no signs of deviation. No 4 will refer to you once the nature of your next assignment has been decided. Until then, you will return to Olso and ensure Swann remains in workable condition.”

“Understood.”

Pause.

The grey head bowed almost imperceptibly. “Very well, No 12. That will be all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes:
> 
> The continuity with the side-fic _Blood Simple_ has been discarded.
> 
> Dr. Guntram Shatterhand is the primary villain in the novel _You Only Live Twice_ but, for the sake of avoiding spoilers, I will only add that he operates under a pseudonym. In this case it is similar.
> 
> Mr. White's house is actually a restaurant irl. It's called Jagdhaus Seewiese, and _can_ be reached on foot from the Church in Altaussee in 30 minutes, or from Hotel Seevilla in 60 minutes. There is a path on the northern shore of the lake. But there's also the option to rent a boat. ~~Honestly I would have written this differently if I'd known, but what can you do?~~
> 
> [You can read more about it here.](https://www.onthetracksof007.com/mr-white-s-log-cabin)
> 
> Part of the monologue from Mr. White to Safin is taken directly from the film _Patterns_ , which just so happens to have been written by Rod Serling. 10/10 would recommend.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is optional, but always appreciated.


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